Better Things To Do (A Continuation)
by BeneficialAddiction
Summary: A continuation of my "Better Things to Do" piece for those who wanted more than a one-shot. If Spike had known he would lose the Gem of Amara so quickly, he may have made better use of it. This is my theory of how he may have spent his invincibility if he'd been a little bit better at making plans.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a continuation of my 'Better Things to Do' piece, for those of you who were hoping for a continuation. I liked it as a one-shot, so I'll be posting these chapters seperately, but you *do* need to read it first to really enjoy this.**

**All publicly recognizeable characters, places, quotes, and plotlines were created by Joss and belong to people other than me.**

* * *

"Buffy this is extremely serious!"

She didn't have to turn away from the window to know that Giles was polishing his glasses furiously with his ever present handkerchief. His tone said it all, if the situation hadn't. Willow and Xander had led the charge back to Giles' apartment, apparently unaware of the way that Buffy lagged behind. She had been quiet and withdrawn on the ride back, letting her friends be the ones to tell the tale, both narrations loud, exaggerated, and full of wide hand gestures. Oz had followed quietly, no doubt puzzling out the situation for himself in that silent way of his, and as she sat to the side of the group, staring out intently at Giles' little tile garden deep in thought, she smiled at the idea that he was handling it the best of them all.

She certainly wasn't. Handling it. The 'lost' part of lost in thought was probably accurate. She couldn't seem to wrap her brain around the idea that, not only was the Gem of Amara real, but Spike was now in possession of it. More concerning to her even than this was the fact that she couldn't seem to get the image of Spike in swimming trunks out of her head. She'd fought him lots of times, and that required touching, so she knew that he was hard and muscled in a nice, compact way. But actually _seeing_ it for herself was something else. Little flashes kept jumping into her brain; the curls of his damp hair, the soft bulge of his biceps, the way the blue in his trunks matched his eyes. Buffy shook her head, trying to snap herself out of this weird, seriously wrong drooling-for-Spike funk. Beads of water rolling down his chest, sand clinging to the back of his shoulders…

"Buffy!"

Grateful for the violent jerk back to reality, Buffy swung around in her chair to face her Watcher.

"Buffy dear, I know this is, well, nerve-wracking for you," Giles began, replacing his glasses to their rightful place on his nose. "And I know that when last we saw him, you and Spike were working together, but I think that with this added threat, it may be time to, well, do what you do best."

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "Added threat?" she snorted. "The Gem? Giles that's hardly an added threat."

"Buffy, I can understand why you would be hesitant to go up against Spike, what with his reputation as the Slayer of Slayers, but I don't think this is something to be taken so lightly." At Buffy's look of indignation, he hastened to correct his faux pas. "I'm perfectly confident in your abilities, do not mistake me. I merely feel that with Spike being so, well… _unique_ as it were, that it would be wise of us to take precautions."

Buffy clenched her jaw. Giles' implication that she was afraid of Spike, that she doubted her ability to take him in a fair fight rankled. Just because she'd rather run her hands down that bare chest than plunge a stake through it… woah. Bad Buffy. Focus. Do not think about the evil blood-sucking fiend. All too eager to redirect her frustration with a certain blonde of the undead variety, she turned on her Watcher.

"Really Giles? Come on. This is Spike." She rolled her eyes, getting up from her seat and heading towards the door. "You remember? The vampire that _helped_ the Slayer? Anything he does, he does for himself. He won't come after me while he has the ring. Like he said, he has better things to do."

Leaving three astounded faces and one stoic one behind her, she let herself out and trotted up the street towards home, a smile flitting across her face. Giles was right. She should be concerned. But for some reason, she just wasn't.

Spike had always been different. From the first night he'd shown his bottle-blonde head outside the Bronze last year Buffy had known that. They had probably all known that. Oh, the same burn to destroy each other had always driven them both, and while neither had slacked at all in their efforts, no blows softened or opportunities passed up, Buffy suspected that neither of them would have cared to really do the deed in the end. How else could they have survived their brief truce last year? Perhaps it was just their shared love of the fight; too fond of the challenge to end it so soon. She wasn't sure.

Ugh! What was it about Spike, with his stupid hair and his punk rock 80's attitude that made him so different from any vampire she'd ever faced? She supposed in certain ways he did remind her of Angel, but Angel had always had a soul. Spike hadn't. Still, at the same time they were so similar, both able to calmly interact with people as if they didn't just see them as the source of a hot meal.

The night Buffy had heard Spike's voice in the background as she spoke with her mother on the phone, she had run home in terror, horrified that she had allowed Spike's invitation into her house to stand. And even as she had thrown him onto his back over their kitchen island, raising a wooden spoon to his chest, something in the back of her mind had marveled at the fact that he had been sitting quietly at the table, sipping cocoa and clinging to her mom's words like a frightened young man in need of some parental advice.

He was different in other ways too. He seemed to be much more in tune with his human sensibilities than other vampires, though as a rule Buffy didn't spend much time with the others. But she did notice that Spike seemed more strongly attached to his vices; he smoked constantly and drank himself drunk with regularity. Buffy had even seen him eat. He had a gusto for the life he lead, and lived it quite happily if she were any judge, nothing like the always-brooding, ever-atoning Angel or the other blood crazed vamps she often fought. Spike played pool and danced, watched television and kept up on popular culture, though his wardrobe certainly didn't show it. He was just… happy.

And the sun. Every vampire Buffy knew, Angel included, feared the sun with a kind of bitter regret, but not Spike. He ran around in the daylight without a care, standing about smoking cigarettes in shaded alleys, running across parks under smoking blankets, driving his beloved blacked-out DeSoto wherever he chose. This should have driven Buffy mad, what with the added threat of a vampire being active in the daytime as well as at night, but she somehow found it to be rather endearing, his seemingly total lack of self-preservation in this regard utterly at odds with his passion to enjoy his time on earth and the brutality with which he fought to preserve it. In a way she supposed she admired him for being everything he was, unapologetically.

But all the things that he was certainly made for a surprise when Buffy and the Scoobies had connected the sinkhole with Spike's search for the Gem. She couldn't understand why the dark warrior who had never feared the sun was now tunneling around underneath the city in search of the vampire's Holy Grail. Now, knowing that he had it, his words buzzing in her head, she thought that maybe, perhaps, she could understand.

Letting herself into the house on Revello Drive, Buffy noted that her mom had yet to return. Tossing her note into the trash, she grabbed an apple from the refrigerator and headed up the stairs to change into dry clothes.

She had never really thought about how hard it must be. To lose the sunshine. Especially in a place like California. Yes, she knew it was limiting, but she'd never really thought of it as more than an inconvenience to the demons who dwelled in the dark, thrived in the moonlight. But then, she'd just admitted that Spike was no ordinary demon, hadn't she. If he spent his time sunbathing on the beach, something Buffy herself regretted not having the time to do more often, was it really right of her to take it away from him?

The phone was ringing in the kitchen. It could certainly be one of her mom's clients, but she suspected it was Giles, and this made her take her sweet time traipsing down the stairs. She hoped the ringing would stop before she got to it, but no such luck. Stupid phone.

"Cheesy's Pizza, how can I help you?"

"Buffy, really, is that appropriate for a girl your age?"

Buffy sighed heavily into the receiver. "Just be glad you've never been the target of me, Xander, and Willows' prank call nights," she grumped. "Actually, we have another one coming up, you may want to change your number Giles…"

"Buffy please, we don't have time for this. I'm not sure what's making you side with Spike right now but…"

"I am _not_ siding with Spike!" Buffy screeched. She could practically see Giles thrusting the phone away from his ear, but she didn't care. He'd roused a weird guilty-badness feeling, and she went on the defensive. "I just don't think this is a big deal! I mean, Spike went around in the daytime without the ring anyway; why should I care now? And it's not like he's doing anything evil with it. I mean, the guy was building sandcastles on the beach…"

Suddenly realizing just how much it sounded like she was defending the vampire, her words trailed away. Safer if she was just no-talky Buffy right now.

"Buffy, I understand your reservations about slaying demons who are… harmless," Giles began. "And while I know that Spike having the ring isn't causing alarm while he is merely using it to… work on his _tan_, I assure you that given time it won't stay that way. He _is_ the second most deadly vampire in history and for good reason. His being in possession of such a rare and valuable artifact is dangerous, and eventually he _will_ use it to do something that, well that _Spike_ would do."

Buffy was silent, torn between two truths. What Giles said was probably true. Spike was an evil vampire, and would eventually come up with some scheme to use the ring in a way that wasn't Slayer-approved. At the same time, it just didn't feel right to take it away from him. He was the one who had believed in the Gem, the one who researched it and who did the work to recover it. After over a hundred years, Buffy kind of thought he deserved it. But…

"I know you're right Giles," she said glumly. "As bad as Spike's plans usually turn out, eventually he'd get up to something that winds up with collateral damage."

Giles made a noise of protest, no doubt at the sentiment 'collateral damage' conferred, but she pushed through it "I'd feel pretty guilty if that happened. Guess I'll have to go get it back."

"Erm, well, yes," the Watcher agreed, "but what is your plan? You can't just walk in and take it from him Buffy. Spike has killed two Slayers, it's hardly a fair fight."

Buffy laughed sardonically into the phone. "Actually, I think it finally is."


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy didn't sleep well that night. She tossed and turned, stared blankly at the ceiling for hours and then fell into complicated dreams that she couldn't remember when she woke up. She lay in bed for a few minutes, enjoying the slash of warmth the rising sun was throwing through a crack in her curtains and trying to stretch away the kinks that always seemed to come with a bad night. Finally giving up the hope of drifting off for a few minutes of peaceful drowsing, she rolled out of her bed and quickly dressed in a tank and yoga pants, pulling her hair back into a ponytail.

Tiptoeing past her mother's closed door, she headed to the kitchen for a quick breakfast. As she sliced a banana onto a bowl of Cornflakes, she began to plot out a quick run in her head. She hated jogging, and honestly didn't need to keep up on it with all the other exercise she got on a daily basis, but she knew it would make her feel better; work out her muscles and kinks, energize her for the day ahead. Taking a seat at the island, she looked down at the cereal in front of her, unprepared for the nausea that suddenly rolled over her.

There was a strange rumbly sort of guilty-ness low in her stomach, and for a few silent beats of time she didn't know why it was there. Then she remembered. Spike. The Gem. Pushing her bowl away from her in irritation, she looped her house key through a hair tie on her wrist and headed out the door, locking it securely behind her before trotting off up the street.

For the first few blocks, she tried not to think. She just wanted to feel the warmth, the pull in her muscles as she ran, to feel the way her body moved smoothly, with power and confidence, and for a while it worked. It took her up the street and around to a small park where the sun was finally getting up above the trees. She skirted around a mom with two small kids heading for the swings and an older man walking a dog that snapped at her as she went by. There was a blue bird screeching from a tree on her left, and a light breeze was bringing her the scent of hot blacktop and cooling the sweat on her forehead and the back of her neck.

She was letting the little things distract her, hold her attention, but as she rounded the final corner of her loop and started heading back home, she had to pass the Westbrook Cemetery. It didn't hold particularly strong memories for her; she patrolled it every so often but it was close to the edge of town and not used that frequently. This resulted in low demon activity, and even lower vamp activity, and she'd certainly never seen Spike there, but the sight of the wrought iron fencing and the crumbling gray headstone's flashing by as she ran were enough to refocus her on her problem again. Slowing to a jog, then a walk, she contemplated the two sides of the dilemma while she cooled down from her run, puffing a bit from the burst of speed she'd put on to get past the cemetery.

She couldn't leave the ring in Spike's hands, she knew that. Eventually, he _would_ get into trouble, and as she had told Giles on the phone the night before, it _would _result in collateral damage. While death and destruction might not be specifically penned onto the bleached menace's list of things to do, it would certainly be a consequence. But she still got a horrible lurch of something like guilt when she thought about taking the ring away from him. So how could she…

"Buffy!"

Jerked out of her musings by Xander's voice, she looked across the street to see him walking up the sidewalk towards her house, Willow at his side.

"Hey!" her friend smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Out for a patrol?"

"Yeah, kinda sunny for the running and the staking, isn't it Buff?" Xander added.

Buffy rolled her eyes at him. "Isn't that exactly the topic of the research party you're coming to invite me to?" she asked.

"Actually, we're coming to drag you to it," Willow smiled. "Giles' orders. He knows how much you hate the book stuff."

Buffy giggled, a bit maniacally, causing both of her friends to look at her with concern. She smiled at them reassuringly and shook her head, leading the way back to the house on Revello Drive.

"Buffy? That you?" her mother called as she ushered her friends inside.

"Yeah mom!"

"Honey are you feeling all... oh." Joyce had come to the kitchen door, Buffy's bowl of soggy cereal soup in her hand, but at the sight of guests, she cut her concerns off at the hilt. "Hey kids," she said, greeting Xander and Willow with a smile that was only a little bit forced. "You're here awfully early."

"Hey, Mrs. Buffy's mom,' Xander smiled. "We've come to commandeer your daughter for the day."

"Yep," Willow agreed with a smile. "Official Slayer homework day."

"I see," Joyce said, the concern on her face growing by the moment. "Buffy, is there something going on that I should…"

"No mom," she interrupted. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Every day danger level, no need to worry."

Xander frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Willow ground down on his foot, and the only thing that came out was a whimper, which he quickly covered with a pained smirk.

"Mom, I'm just gonna go grab a quick shower and then we're gonna go over to Giles' and get to work." Shooting Willow a look that warned her they were in 'keeping-secrets-from-mom' mode, she darted up the stairs towards the seclusion of the bathroom, smiling when she heard her mother offer breakfast to her friends.

A quick shower later and she was back downstairs, hauling Xander and Willow out the door, practically running from the plate of pancakes her mother had pushed towards her. The nauseas-guilty-knotty feeling in her stomach hadn't gone away, and the thought of food had her gagging. She managed to pull herself together on the walk over to Giles' apartment, engaging with her friends in the way she normally did, laughing, joking, enjoying just being together. The feeling didn't last long.

"Buffy," Giles smiled, welcoming them into his living room. "I'm glad you're here."

"What's up Watcher mine?" she asked with a cheery smile, deciding to play dumb. "What monster threatens?"

Her attempt at levity fell flat, the frown on the older man's face held more than disappointment and concern. Turning away from her, he whipped off his glasses and began to polish as he led them to the coffee table. There were books, papers, and even a few paintings stacked there, but Buffy noticed that the material seemed to be divided into two piles, one much smaller than the other. Approaching the smaller side with caution, she tipped the cover of the top-most book. A Witch's Grimoir of Magical Artifacts. A good enough place to start.

Xander plopped down at her side on the couch, snatching the book up before she could claim it, no doubt because it was thin and had lots of pictures. Punching him good naturedly, she leaned forward to pick up another but was stopped when Giles' cleared his throat.

"Actually Buffy, I think it would be better if you worked on this end of things," he said, indicating the other side of the table.

"Aww, do I gotta?" she grumped. That end of things looked much more involved, thick books, handwritten diaries, and files spilling loose papers that would no doubt be nearly impossible to read or understand.

"Yes," he said firmly.

Sighing, she got up from her seat next to Xander and switched to a high-backed chair set into a corner, slightly away from the others. Giles seemed to take issue with her behavior, thrusting a thick leather journal into her hands before joining Willow and Xander at the other end of the table. So, she was getting a special assignment of her very own then? Cracking the journal, she immediately felt a hot flash of anger burn through her.

A charcoal sketch of Spike stared up at her, greatly exaggerated, for obviously reasons not drawn from life. His teeth were bared in a hideous snarl, his eyes narrowed dangerously. It was those eyes she recognized. She knew that look intimately. The rest of it was just scribbles from some Watcher's failing hand and memory. Dropping the journal to the floor at her side, she leaned in and shuffled through the rest of the pile.

It was all about Spike. Everything history had, all the Watcher's journals, all the notes kept by all the Slayers who'd done such things, all the pictures, all the drawings… She glared at Giles, but he was studiously ignoring her, deep in an intense examination of a painting of what appeared to be a French noblewoman. He had called in favors for this. This was a collection of everything the Watcher's council had on William the Bloody, not just his personal store. He was setting her up for the fight of her life, and he didn't think she was ready.


	3. Chapter 3

Four hours later, Buffy was actually glad that Giles had forced the research on her, though she never would have admitted it. She was learning a lot about the blonde vampire that was plaguing her, and had slowly made her way through the piles of information in silence, completely absorbed in the information. Some of it was terribly hard to read, particularly the diaries of the Watchers whose slayers Spike had killed, and yet Buffy found herself taking it all with a large grain of salt, unwilling to accept the accounts at face value. There were two sides to everything, weren't there? And somehow, none of it was as terrible as she had braced herself for.

She knew why. A year ago she'd been doing just this, reading everything she could about another vampire. Angelus. She had been expecting that level of horror, brutality. She didn't find it. Spike wasn't Angelus, never had been, and if there was any hope for the world, never would be. Instead she seemed to be finding things that made her feelings of guilt grow, while at the same time intriguing her. When she read the accounts of Angelus's torture of his companions, she felt deep sorrow, even pity for Spike. When she read of his strange devotion to Drusilla, she felt a great confusion and some sort of awe.

A blurry photo, taken at great distance and dated from the late sixties, fell from inside a crumbling file, and showed a punked-out Spike stumbling up the street with Drusilla on his arm, unaware of the photographer tailing them. A deep curiosity stole over her as she traced the edges of the photo, squinting in a futile attempt to get a better view of the spiked hair, the heavy black eye liner, and the glint of silver on his chest that hinted at jewelry. A cold flash of fear zapped up her spine as she recognized attraction in the swirl of emotion in her chest. Quickly folding the photo in half, she stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket, wanting only to get it out of sight, not even realizing that she's be carrying it with her. Picking up the rest of the file, she tossed it harshly onto the coffee table.

"Yeah, I second that!" Xander declared, tossing his own book onto the table with an exasperated sigh. "Break time?"

"Break time!" Willow agreed, stomping on whatever protest Giles had been about to voice. "I vote Chinese food."

"Again, I second," Xander smiled, leaning back over the couch to grab the phone off the desk. "The usual all around?"

There were clamors of assent but Buffy stayed quiet, trying to deal with the turmoil rolling around inside her head and inside her stomach. Her Watcher noticed her unusual lack of response, and kept careful eyes on her as he stood to stretch the kinks from sitting hunched over his books for too long. He waited until Xander had finished off their order with a side of shrimp egg rolls before speaking up.

"I think it would be easiest if we went around the group and each adds the important points of what we've found. Then we can collaborate and some up with a cohesive plan of attack."

Willow smiled in approval and nodded vigorously, happy with the scholarly approach.

Xander came back to the couch, flopping down with the sigh of a beleaguered teenage male. "Well, at least this'll go fast," he said with a sarcastic grin. "All these books and only a few sentences on the Gem."

"It's true that the Council doesn't know that much the Gem of Amara," Giles said in a tone that was almost ashamed. "The first rumors of it began early in the tenth century. It was said that it could be found in the valley of the sun." Giles picked up the painting he had been studying and handed it across to Buffy. "It was thought to be a ring of golden overlay, housing an emerald gemstone; the source of its power. When word of its powers began to spread, hundreds of vampires flocked to the Hellmouth in search of it, but it was never found. It was determined that the ring never truly existed, and it became a sort of Holy Grail, the ultimate prize."

"There's no real record of how the Gem came to be, how it was created or what gave it its powers," Willow said, picking up the tale as she sorted through a stack of articles she had earmarked. "Its rumored properties include immunity to sunlight, as well as increased vampiric abilities such as strength and speed over time. More importantly," she angled Buffy a significant look, "it speeds up their regenerative capabilities."

"It whats their who?" Buffy asked, quirking a brow.

"It means they heal faster," Willow explained. "Even faster than usual. It means that you can't use crosses or stakes against Sp… um, against the vampire who has it." Buffy had narrowed her eyes at Willow when she began to personalize the statement, and though Willow didn't understand her reaction, she thought it probably best to just not mention the blonde vampire at all. "Anyway… the wounds caused by a stake or a cross, piercing the heart and burning, would heal almost as soon as they were caused."

"So, what?" Xander asked, confusion obvious in his tone. "Buffy can't dust Spike?"

"Basically," Willow said quickly, standing to put herself between her two friends. Buffy had risen slightly in her chair, but had sat down just as quickly, emotions warring on her face. "The ring makes a vampire pretty much unkillable."

"So that's pretty much the sum-up then," Xander smiled. "It's just a ring that makes a vamp heal a little faster."

"Yes I suppose that is the abridged version," Giles remarked, taking off his glasses for a polish. "But I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than that. If the Gem makes a vampire invulnerable, truly immortal…"

"Well I don't think that's exactly true," Willow said, quickly paging through a book. "The Gem doesn't negate the effects of a stake or a cross; they would still stab and burn, and probably hurt like a bi…" Willow blushed hard. "Anyway. It just makes a vampire heal fast enough to keep them from dusting."

"So Buff just needs to get him to dust before he has time to heal." Clapping his hands together, Xander stood and walked over to Giles' weapons chest, opening the lid and reaching in. "Now what method of vampire extermination do we know that could do that?" Straightening up, he raised a gleaming sword, gripping the hilt tightly and swinging it like a bat.

Leaping from the couch, Giles took the sword before any serious damage was done to his flat. "Yes. Well. That's the plan then." He turned back to face Buffy, who had yet to contribute to the conversation. "We will all…"

At that moment the doorbell rang, and Buffy had never been more grateful for Chinese for in her life. Xander and Willow dashed for the door, and Giles headed for his wallet. It seemed that he was constantly shelling out for junk food for these teenagers, but if he thought about it, he supposed it was the least he could do for the one girl in all the world. So he paid the tab and tipped the slobby delivery boy, and helped to sort through the waxy white cartons of lo mein, beef and broccoli, and cashew chicken. When everyone was happily settled in with their chopsticks, he returned his attention to his Slayer.

She was poking around in a box of pork fried rice, looking a bit pale and sweaty. Perhaps the reality of her coming fight with Spike was finally sinking in. As he watched, Buffy closed the box and pushed it away.

"Buffy dear, are you all right?" he asked softly.

"Fine," she replied, with a big fake smile. Rising from her chair, she stepped around the coffee table and grabbed her jacket from the back of the desk chair, sliding it on. "I _am_ gonna get going though," she announced.

"But Buffy, we haven't discussed a plan of attack yet."

"Don't worry so much Giles," she said, picking up the polished sword that Giles had propped near the door. Ghosting her hand along the blade, she tested the edge with her thumb. "I always do better with improv anyway." Ignoring her spluttering Watcher, she turned the knob, opening the door to go.

"Hey Buff!" Xander called.

Buffy almost sighed in exasperation, but reeled it in before turning to face her friends, a questioning smile on her face. He didn't speak only selected a fortune cookie from the table and pitched it in her direction. She caught it easily and cracked the wafer open, pulling out the slip of paper from the inside.

_**Beware the coming decision; its consequences will be long-lasting.**_

Buffy laughed and crushed the fortune in her fist.


	4. Chapter 4

_"Buffy…"_

_"I said I'll take care of it Giles."_

_"But you don't even know where to find him."_

_"I know where to find him."_

It had been a lie. Buffy had no idea where to find him. It had been a transparent lie too, written all over her face. And that was probably the only reason that Giles had let her go. Had she really known where Spike was, she would have gotten a serious third degree questioning as to just why she had such information. Instead, he had let her leave, abandon the research table and go home without forming any sort of attack plan and without involving any of the others.

No doubt he believed that she would give in eventually; that she would run a few half-hearted patrols, not really hunting, until finally she yielded to her pride and came together with the others to create a realistic strategy for dealing with this new threat. But she wasn't so sure that would be happening soon. Or ever.

"Buffy? That you?"

"Yeah mom," she called. Trailing into the kitchen, she found her mom sitting at the island with a cup of tea and an art magazine. "I came home a little early."

"Sweetheart, is something wrong?" Joyce asked, closing her magazine and setting it aside. "You haven't seemed quite yourself these last few days."

Buffy slumped onto a stool with a groan and rested her forehead on the tabletop. "Why does life have to be so hard?" she mumbled.

Joyce chuckled softly. "Life isn't fair Buffy," she began gently, "but I think that it's hard because, well, the good parts just wouldn't be as good if it weren't. Does that make sense?"

Buffy raised her head and smiled at her mom. "Yeah. But it's not _quite_ helpful in _this_ situation."

"Hmm." Joyce smiled at her daughter indulgently. "Well, maybe if you actually told me what was wrong I could help?"

Buffy considered a minute. Her mom was usually good for impartial advice. Just keep it vague. "I just don't know what to do," she murmured sadly. "I know what my job is. I know what I'm supposed to do. I kill evil. I make bad things go away. But... this time… it just doesn't feel right! I can't just kill Sp… I can't just kill them when they aren't doing anything wrong."

"The world isn't black and white Buffy," Joyce said with a sad smile, placing a hand over Buffy's. "I know that you've been given this destiny, that you're forced to make these difficult decisions every day. I don't envy you. But you have to try and keep some perspective."

Buffy looked at her mom with a question in her eyes. Joyce sighed.

"You've been given enormous power sweetie. Not your strength, or fighting ability, or any of that. You were given the power to make decisions. You're a judge, jury, and executioner all in one. _You_ have to be the one to decide the fates of every demon or… non-person, that you come across. You hold countless lives in your hands. That has to be a terrible burden sometimes."

Buffy nodded as tears began to slip silently down her cheeks. Joyce moved in close and wrapped her daughter in a hug.

"You have to remember that you're not a god Buffy. You're just a girl. You're human. Humans are allowed to have emotions, to _feel_. To make mistakes. Spike… I mean, these demons you fight. They may do wrong sometimes. But _people_ do too Buffy. I'm not sure it makes them any less deserving of a life. And like I said before, the world isn't black and white. No one out there is all good or all bad. Not you or me or Sp…"

At her mother's second slip of the blonde vampire's name, Buffy cocked an eye at her. Joyce laughed with a smile. "Ok," she said, giving Buffy one more hug. "No more advice out of mom." Picking her cup up from the island she moved to take it to the sink, but Buffy stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"You'll know what to do Buffy. You have a good heart, and you're smarter than you think you are. The right thing may not be the easiest thing, or the most popular thing, but you'll know what it is."

Buffy stood, ready to head to her room for a nap. When she hit the bottom stair, Joyce's voice stopped her, calling out from the kitchen.

"Oh and Buffy? I don't know what he's up to, but I like Spike. I'd be very upset to see him go."

* * *

Buffy's nap didn't happen. She lay on top of the covers, tossing and turning, punching her pillow into all kinds of shapes looking for a comfy spot. She had thrown her shirt to the floor, and now lay sweating in only a pair of shorts and a sports bra. Her room was terribly hot despite the open window, and as the sun began to set it slashed through the gap in her curtains and fell over her, making her even more uncomfortable.

Jumping up with a huff, she flipped the switch on her desk fan and crossed the room, jerking the curtains shut roughly. Flopping back onto her bed, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the breeze that played over her damp skin, a small relief in the dimmed light. Listening to the hum of the spinning fan blades, she wished her thoughts would quiet, but they seemed to spin in kind, circling round and round like a dog after its tail.

She was going to take the ring away from Spike. She'd decided on that. She couldn't let him keep it. Now she had moved on to the hows and the wheres. It already took most of her strength to hold her own against Spike, and if Willow's research could be trusted, and it almost always could, it wouldn't be so easy this time. Not to mention that the Gem basically made him invisible. To top it all off, she was going to be fighting for a tie this time. She didn't want to kill Spike. She just wanted the ring back. She'd just have to grab it from him and then beat him off. Er, _fend_ him off.

In the middle of her empty bedroom, Buffy blushed at her mind's faux pas. Shaking away the ridiculousness of having naughty thoughts about _Spike_ of all people, she turned her mind to the more pressing question; where was he? Couldn't fight him, for a tie or otherwise, if she couldn't find him. She had a feeling this wouldn't be easy either. She doubted that he was holed up in the old factory again, not after his failed hostage stashing. The place had been condemned after Cordy's accident anyway. Not that that would stop Spike.

"Ergh!" In a fit of frustration, Buffy threw Mr. Gordo hard across the room. Immediately remorseful, she rolled off the bed and collected the stuffed pig from the floor, hugging him close. "Sorry," she whispered.

Crossing her legs, she sank to the floor and stared at the window. There was a tiny gap where the curtains didn't quite overlap, and from her position at the end of the bed, she could see the bright oranges, reds, pinks, and purples being splashed over the sky as the sun set. "If you were a vampire," she asked the pig in her arms, "and suddenly the sun wouldn't turn you into vampy bacon anymore, where would you hide?"

Mr. Gordo didn't reply, so she asked the question again, this time of herself.

"If I were a vampire," she murmured, "where would I go?"

Several ideas ran through her mind. There were any number of venues, especially in California, where hundreds of people got together during the day, perfect places for sun-soaked blood baths. The beach, for example. But then, he'd been there already, and there hadn't been any bloodshed. _That _ was the problem. She was thinking like a vampire. She needed to thing like Spike. Staring through the crack in her curtains, inspiration suddenly hit like a lightning strike.

She knew where she could find him.


	5. Chapter 5

Ugh. Five AM. As in five in the morning. This vampire was seriously infringing on her beauty rest. Buffy was going to make him pay for that. One way or another. Rolling over in the dark, she slammed a hand down on her bedside table, missing her alarm three times before finally silencing the hideous blaring that came from it. Knowing that she would never move it she didn't get out of bed right away, she dragged herself upright and began a quick series of stretches to limber up and shake away the sleepies. In and out of the bathroom, she left her hair loose around her shoulders and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a jacket. It was too early to bother with make-up or nice clothes, and besides it was still cold outside.

Taking the silvery sword in its carved scabbard from her closet, she headed towards her bedroom window, but paused when she caught a glimpse of herself moving past her mirror. A stake sat on the edge of her vanity, and she hesitated, hand half out to pick it up. She didn't want to carry it, didn't want to tempt fate by having it with her, but she supposed it wasn't wise to go to war unarmed, whether you were gunning for a stalemate or not. Tucking the stake into her jacket pocket, she quickly and quietly opened the window and climbed through, dropping smoothly to the ground.

The grass was wet, soaking through her boots as she trotted down the empty streets, heading out to the edge of town. She was working on a hunch, going where she would go if she were Spike. There was no guarantee he'd be there, no guarantee that she'd chosen the right spot. The sky was lightening as she went, the houses getting further and further apart and the land beginning to slope gently, until she reached the very limits of Sunnydale and the bluffs that marked it. She didn't go there often, but she had remembered visiting them once with her friends, and Xander remarking that from the top you could get the best view in town. It was a rough climb, and her breath was coming in short pants, puffing smoke in the chill air when she reached the top.

The top of the bluff was broad and flat, trees and shrubbery sparse across the dusty earth. The sun was just coming up on the other side, a hot, glaring light breaking over the edge and bringing tears to her eyes, splashing color across the skyline. And there, perched on the railing of the observation desk, was Spike.

His feet were dangling carelessly over the edge of the cliff, swinging a bit the way a child's would. A soft, black, hooded sweatshirt accompanied his everyday black jeans and Docs, and there was something unnervingly snuggly about the way he wore it. His eyes were closed, face tipped up as a gentle breeze blew through his loose curls. He held a small, leather bound book in his lap, but in that moment he was entirely still, soaking in the heat of the rising sun, enjoying the simplest pleasure that had been kept from him for over a century. The look of happiness, of _peace_ on his face, was exactly the reason that Buffy was having such a hard time with this whole thing. Guiltily, she looked down at the sword in her hands, unseating it from its lock in the scabbard with a silent click.

"Do we really need weapons for this?"

Buffy started. She hadn't realized that he'd made her; she was standing downwind, and she'd been completely silent since arriving on the top of the bluff. More than that, it was the words themselves, the same ones she had spoken to him on that night when they'd first fought. He had cast aside his weapons for her then; she would show him the same courtesy now. Leaning the sword against a tree, she unzipped her jacket to take it off, and in doing so, cast aside her stake, but strange new apathy for him aside, she still didn't trust him. He was still the Slayer of Slayers. She kept the coat, stake snug in the pocket.

Spinning around on the guardrail, Spike bent and placed his notebook gently on a rock before rising to his full height and turning towards her. He had tucked his hands deep in the pockets of his sweatshirt, his head tipped down as he looked at anything but her. Buffy was struck with the sudden need to explain herself.

"You know I can't let you keep it Spike."

"And why is that Slayer?" he snapped, his eyes jumping up and pinning her in place. "Because your Watcher told you that you couldn't?" Pulling his fist out of his pocket, he kept it clenched tight, examining the gem on his finger.

"We can't trust you with it."

"Oh and you _can _trust me without it?" Spike scoffed, shaking his head. Facing around to the still rising sun, he showed her his back. "Think I'm gonna use it to run a massacre at the mall during rush hour? My plans may not always go off Slayer, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid. Crime happens at night for more than one reason. And besides…" He turned back around, apparently unsurprised to find Buffy standing only feet away now, having sidled closer when he'd looked away. "I've got better things to do. Told you that once already."

"I'm not letting you leave here with that ring," she said, resolve sharp in her voice.

"Well I'm sure as hell not handing it over," he said smugly.

"Then I guess I'll just have to come get it."

Buffy made the first move, and it was to her advantage. Spike was used to seeing her react, to seeing her on the defensive, responding to moves but not initiating the fight. Now she acted the aggressor, hoping to control the fight in order to achieve her desired outcome. Launching herself at him, she caught him around the middle, tackling him backwards towards the guardrail. The 'oof' that he let out was an unexpected reward as she knocked the wind from his lungs. Spike twisted underneath her and they scrabbled in the dirt, each of them vying for the dominant position. Buffy hissed as he landed a sharp elbow in her ribs, but she had gotten an iron grip on his wrist and she wasn't letting go.

The fight was terribly brutal, as fights often were when they were so close. This was no pretty display of martial arts skills, several feet between opponents as they kicked and spun, slashed at each other from a distance. No, this was tight and nasty; rolling, grappling, short jabs and powerful thrusts as each attempted to buck the other off. Spike ended up on his knees with Buffy pressed tightly to his back, her right arm stretched out alongside his as she clung tightly to his wrist, so close to her prize.

Suddenly Spike let out a vicious snarl, and Buffy didn't have to see his face to know that his demon had come out to play. He swept his arm across his chest, and a flash of intuition told her that if she didn't move, she was going to be spun around beneath him and it would be over. Shoving hard with her feet, she threw them towards the edge of the bluff, grabbing a fistful of Spike's blonde curls and slamming his head hard against the guardrail.

"Bitch!"

Blood was coursing down into his eyes from a long cut on his forehead, and from their dazed and glassy look, she would bet he was a bit concussed. But as Buffy watched, the cut sealed itself, the ring's powers healing it before her eyes. It was now or never. Readjusting her grip on Spike's wrist she flipped him over and crushed his face into the dirt, forcing his hand up behind his back towards his shoulders.

"You take it from me this way," he snarled, "and we'll both burn!"

"I'll have to take my chances," Buffy said.

The words were laced with pain and fear, catching Spike off guard, and for only a second, his body stilled in surprise. It was just enough for Buffy to grab the ring and rip it from his finger. Rolling clear, she heard a rough shout, and looked up just in time to see Spike jerk his hood up over his face and take off towards the trees, running at a breakneck pace and cursing loudly the whole way.

Standing up, she wiped the sweat out of her eyes and watched as the wisps of smoke the burning vampire had left behind curled away. He had gone west. That was good. There were caves in that direction, small, but big enough to shelter a single vampire for the day. Dropping to the ground with a tired huff, Buffy took a good look at the thing causing all the fuss.

It was ugly really, as far as rings went. Gaudy and old fashioned. Pretty big too, made for a man. Typical. It only fit her thumb, and certainly didn't go with her jacket, but she slipped it on anyways. Rising to her feet, she stretched hard to the left, her ribs aching where Spike's elbow had driven in. She thought that she may have landed on her stake at one point too, when she'd first tackled Spike and landed on top of him.

Walking back to the edge of the bluff where she had first climbed up, she retrieved the sword from where it rested against the tree and turned to begin her descent back down, but something caught her eye, a flash of white on the ground near the railing. Spike's book. It had tipped off the rock in the scuffle and blown open, the pages ruffling in the breeze. Without knowing why, she picked it up and stuffed it into her coat, taking one last look at the sun as it rose over the city, light sparking off the glass windows below.


	6. Chapter 6

"My God, how did you accomplish it?" Giles asked in astonishment, turning the ring around and around in his hands.

Looking down at the table so that her hair blocked her face, Buffy mumbled something unintelligible.

"English Buffy, please!"

"I said I pulled his hair!" Buffy cried out miserably. Embarrassment was glaringly obvious in his eyes, her cheeks pink. "Oh my God Giles," she whimpered, "I actually resorted to hair pulling! What am I, twelve?"

Willow snickered behind her hand, but when Buffy whipped around and glared at her, she covered it with a convincing cough.

"Just goes to show you what a chick will do for jewelry," Xander smirked, plucking the ring from Giles fingers and peering at it. "Don't understand the appeal myself."

"Spike's no chick," Buffy mumbled. Not with that body. Lean and hard in all the right places. Oh God! It had been her stake that she'd fallen on, hadn't it? Buffy blushed violently, going from pink to deep red.

"Well, no," Xander amended, thankfully oblivious to her condition. "But… ya know… special vampy jewelry right?"

"Indeed," Giles commented, retrieving said object from the young boy's hands. "Now we just need to decide what's to be done with it. I've no doubt that Spike will strive to get it back."

"I'm gonna hold on to if for a while," Buffy said, not looking at her Watcher. Before he could voice his objections, she continued. "Spike'll think that I'm too smart to hold on to it. Or that my Watcher won't let me. He'll be looking for places that I would hide it. It'll be safe until I can decide what to do with it."

"Perhaps we should just destroy it."

Buffy's gaze slashed up to Giles' with something like a hot, violent anger in them, and for just a moment he felt the fear of knowing what his Slayer was capable of. Then that fire faded, and all that was left were the gentle eyes of a young girl, albeit a girl who had great confidence in her beliefs.

"I don't think that would be very smart," she said softly, taking the ring from him and holding it tight. "This. This little thing. It's powerful. I can feel it. And it might be useful one day."

"Yes I suppose you're right," Giles conceded. "It may be. Perhaps if given to Angel some good may come of it."

"I'll think about it," Buffy replied, slipping the ring back onto her thumb.

And she would think about what to do with it. But she knew that it wouldn't be going to Angel. That would be the kind of slap in the face that Buffy just wasn't comfortable with dishing out. Spike had been the one to believe, to do the work, to fight for what he wanted. He didn't deserve to have it taken away from him and given to Angel, like everything else in his life. No one deserved that kind of slight.

Buffy stood to leave, looking round at her friends. "I know I cut early yesterday, bit I'm going home. I had to get up way too early this morning."

"Grrrr," Willow complained, "Stupid Spike! He's seriously cutting into my best friend time."

"I'll make it up to you guys," Buffy said, looking at both Willow and Xander. "I promise. I'll give you _all_ of next weekend." Turning to Giles, she threw her Watcher a smile. "And I'll give _you _all of the next one. Whatever you want, even those weird crystal meditation thingies."

Happy and accepting murmurs rang around the room. Her friends pacified, Buffy grabbed her jacket and pulled it on. She'd gone straight to Giles' after she'd climbed down from the bluff, and she could feel the sharp corners of Spike's book pressing inside her pocket. The sudden curiosity to know what he'd been reading out there in the sun had her hurrying with her goodbyes and trotting home, eager to crawl into bed and snoop a bit before crashing.

She got waylaid.

"Buffy," Joyce called, as she closed the front door behind her, "Come in here and have something to eat!"

Dropping her head in a silent groan, she dragged her feet all the way into the kitchen. Her mom was standing with her head in the refrigerator door, and Buffy took the opportunity to stick her tongue out at her. She had a feeling that she was about to be grilled, and she wasn't looking forward to it. So when the first question out of Joyce's mouth was to ask her what she would like to eat, Buffy's jaw dropped in surprise.

"Um. I don't know." Buffy responded. And she didn't. She had the strange impression that in that moment, time had slowed, and there was nothing that she needed to be doing. She was in a vast, white room that was entirely empty, and the only thing left was to breathe.

Emerging from the refrigerator with a carton of eggs, Joyce placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You were out of here awfully early this morning," she commented, pulling out ham, cheese, an onion, and a green pepper. "I doubt you ate any breakfast. You need to keep your strength up if you're going to be out slaying night _and _day now."

"Actually, just night," Buffy said, waving her right hand near her face without thought.

"Is this what all the fuss was about?" Joyce asked, catching Buffy's hand out of the air and examining the ring on her thumb.

"Um, yeah. It's called the Gem of Amara. It lets…"

"Vampires go out in the daylight," Joyce interrupted, letting go of Buffy's hand and picking up a knife. "Yes, I know. No wonder you were out the window before the sun was up."

"You know?" Buffy cried. "Why do you know? How do you know?"

"Well Spike told me dear!" Joyce replied. "He said he thought it might be more than a legend. I was the one who suggested he look through inventory archives to see if he could find a matching description in any gallery logs, instead of just trying to trace it down through family diaries."

Buffy stared in dead silence, her mouth hanging open, as her mother casually chopped veggies for an omelet. "So you're telling me," she said slowly, "that you _helped_ Spike find it?"

"Oh, I don't know if I was any real help," she said, pouring whipped eggs into a frying pan with a sizzle. "I'd like to think so."

"Mother!"

"Oh Buffy honestly," Joyce chastised, looking at her over her shoulder. "What kind of trouble could he possibly get into during the day that he couldn't get into just as well at night?" She narrowed her eyes, gaze intent on the bruise that was just beginning to shadow Buffy's left cheekbone, courtesy of Spike's fist. "I certainly hope you didn't hurt him Buffy. It doesn't seem very fair that you took that away from him."

Buffy sat at the island doing the gasping fish impression while her mother slid the omelet out onto a plate and pushed it in front of her. After a few minutes, Buffy realized that no words were going to come out of her mouth, so she decided to shrug it off and put food into it instead. Her mom had really only made the same points she'd already made herself. And besides, it was the first time since all this started that she felt truly hungry, and her mom made pretty good omelets. Breakfast for lunch. Why not?

* * *

It was beautiful outside, the sun shining brightly through her curtains. Deciding she could nap in the yard just as well as in her bed, Buffy grabbed an old blanket out of her room and headed down into the backyard. Spreading the blanket out, she lay down on her stomach, enjoying the way the grass brushed against the soles of her feet where they hung off the blanket and the way that the breeze played gently over her legs and the exposed small of her back.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she passed her hand over the smooth cover of Spike's book. It was wrapped in a sort of soft brown leather, but there was no title or author's name stamped into it. Lifting the cover, she was surprised to see that it wasn't a book in the printed sense, but a notebook. It was made up of a heavy, creamy parchment, parchment filled with lines of dark beautiful script. She spent a moment admiring the thick black curves of the letters that covered the pages before actually reading a bit. With a gasp, she realized that the script was Spike's. She was holding a volume of poetry written by William the Bloody.

Buffy snapped the book shut, her cheeks flushing hot. She had the distinct impression that she had stumbled onto something immensely private, something that was completely and utterly Spike. What she held was a piece of his… well, not his _soul_, he didn't have one of those, but something close to that. Certainly this book was a part of himself that he would never under normal circumstances have allowed into her possession. He would have protected this piece of his soft underbelly with fang and claw, perhaps even with his life.

She should really respect that. She didn't have any right to read it. It would be very wrong of her. Evil, even.

Cracking the book open, she quickly flipped through the pages until she was about two thirds of the way through, to the last page that Spike had written on. He really did have lovely penmanship. Much nicer than her own. His hands had been right here, where hers were, slim pale fingers loose on the barrel of an old-fashioned fountain pen. Shaking the image out of her head, she began to read the last entry in the book.

Glare of light

And heat of fire

For first in hundreds

Not funeral pyre

Safe for now

As color bleeds

For first in hundreds

Not forced to leave

To once wait for fall

Now watch the rise

Harsh on pale skin

And blinded eyes

To feel that light

Bright heat on skin

To be lit with that glow

Effulgent

So long in darkness

To walk in light

Gives demon hope

Against black of night

Buffy felt tears pricking in her eyes, and gently shut the book so that they might not fall on the pages and cause the ink to bleed. She had just read a poem written by William the Bloody, and she thought the piece was beautiful. He had poured his so… God, there was that word again. He had poured _himself_ onto that page, put everything that he was onto it, and she could feel the emotions spilled over the paper.

If she hadn't wanted to keep the ring from him before… well now she felt like a total bitch.

She_ had_ to think of a way to make it up to him.


	7. Chapter 7

Willy's night had started out poorly, what with having to mop a Garowlf demon off the floor, but apparently it was about to get a lot worse. It wasn't fair. He was just a dishonest guy trying to make a little honest money here. Hurrying down to the other end of the bar, he put on a placating smile.

"Miss Summers! So good to see you," he said in a falsely cheerful voice, speaking loudly so that his patrons would take heed of his words. "What can I get you tonight? You know I'm always happy to serve _The Slayer_."

Several customers took the hint and climbed slowly from their seats, sidling casually towards the door while giving the small blonde girl at the bar a wide berth. She watched them go, throwing them a cheerful smile and waggling her fingers in a wave to help speed them on their way, before turning stony eyes on the greasy bartender.

"Well, if you insist," she smiled sweetly, "You can serve me a nice glass of information. I'm looking for a certain bloodsucker. Leather jacket, bottle blonde. You know him?"

"You uh, you mean Spike?" Willy laughed nervously. "Hasn't come in tonight. Sorry."

"I hardly need you to tell me _that_ Willy," the girl said, cracking her knuckles. "What I _need_ you to tell me is where I can _find_ him."

"Yeah, um, about that," Willy hem hawed, backing slowly away from the bar, "See if I tell you that… well um, he's gonna kill me. Yeah, he'd uh, he'd snap me like a twig so…"

Suddenly, Buffy's hands flashed out, grabbing the sides of his shirt and hauling him over the bar towards her. Willy squeezed his eyes shut, flinching in anticipation of the blow to come. It never did, but his muscles didn't relax when her words reached his ears in a low, hissing whisper.

"And what do you think _I'll _do to you Willy?"

The images that his mind supplied were enough to make him crack. "Ok, ok!" he cried holding his hands up in surrender. "He's staying over in Restview! There's a crypt there, heard he cleared a nest out of it a few weeks ago!"

"There now," the Slayer smiled, letting him go and patting down his collar. "That wasn't so bad was it?"

"Glad it was good for _you_," Willy sulked. "Don't know why you're looking for him Slayer, but I hope you stake the guy." At Buffy's frown, he hurried to explain. "I mean, I like Spike and all, don't get me wrong. Great guy! But you know… better him than me."

"You don't have _any_ friends, do you?" the girl stated suddenly, deadly serious.

Willy just stared at her blankly, unsure if he was meant to answer. The Slayer sighed, then pulled out a twenty dollar bill and smacked it down on the bar.

"Well hey Slayer, if you were gonna pay me for the info, I would've given it up sooner," Willy smiled, reaching out for the bill.

Her hand slapped down on it before he could pick it up. "Not so fast," she said. "Give me a bottle."

"A bottle of what?" Willy asked, surprised. He didn't think that the Slayer drank.

"Whatever Spike usually drinks."

Willy eyebrows drew down in confusion. The Vampire Slayer was buying alcohol for a vamp? Taking down an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels he handed it over, relieved when she snatched it away from him and abruptly left. He didn't know what she was up to, but it couldn't be good, and he'd be better off just staying out of it.

* * *

'_Oh Lord, what am I doing_?' Buffy thought as she wound her way between the headstones of the Restview Cemetery.

It had been three days since Buffy had taken the Gem of Amara away from Spike, and she had finally worked up the courage to go beat his location out of Willy. She wasn't scared of _him_ of course, he was just a lowlife, a weasel, but she was scared of what her next step was to be. Knowing where he was meant that it was time to act.

Buffy tightened her hands around the bottle of Jack she had purchased. She wasn't sure why she'd bought it. Maybe she was trying to apologize. Maybe she was just trying to butter him up. Hmm. That could be fun… Focus! A large crypt loomed up in front of her, and she approached cautiously, widening her senses, searching for that little prickle on the back of her neck that said 'Vampire.'

He wasn't there.

Buffy sighed in relief. She had hoped for this. It would be easier this way. Tentatively pushing the door to the crypt open, she slipped through. It was dank and dusty and almost completely black inside, the stones carved into generic figures of dead guys, sarcophagi lined neatly against the walls. She strained her eyes against the darkness, looking for some sign that Spike really was staying there. There was a blanket draped over one of the coffins in the style of a makeshift bed, and the dust was scuffed away on the floor where boots had tread, but none of it assured her that it was Spike staying there, or even a vampire. It could've been a human for all she knew. Eww - hopefully not. Thoroughly squicked, Buffy rounded the side of the sarcopha-bed.

Jackpot.

A gray duffel bag lay on its side, spilling its treasures over the floor. Three records; two by the Ramones and one by the Sex Pistols. Two black t-shirts and a pair of socks. A bottle of black nail polish. Four small, leather-bound books. Six packs of cigarettes.

Satisfied that Spike was indeed the occupant of the crypt, Buffy left the vampire's stash alone, placing the bottle of Jack prominently in the center of the stone coffin. Then, taking Spike's notebook out of the pocket of her coat, she smoothed a hand over the cover. She hadn't read any more than that last poem, though she very much wanted to. Instead, she had slipped a letter of her own inside; an explanation, an apology, a proposal. Propping the book against the bottle of booze, Buffy turned away from the poems and left the crypt. She hoped that it wasn't the last she ever saw of them.

* * *

"Soddin' Ssssslayer," Spike slurred, stumbling across the Restview Cemetery.

Who did she think she was, playing God like that? Bitch. Taking his ring away just because her Watcher said so, bouncing his skull off a bleeding steel railing. It wasn't fair. All he wanted to do was go to the beach, maybe take in a football game, but noooo…

Suddenly the wind shifted, blowing towards him from deep inside the cemetery, carrying the scent of the girl in question to his eager nose. Inhaling long and slow, he tasted her essence on the breeze, his mouth curling into a sneering grin. Looking for a fight was she? Well, the bint was in luck, so was he.

Breaking into a sloppy jog, Spike followed the breeze, narrowing in on the source of the scent. To his surprise, the trail ran directly to the door of his crypt. Though the door was closed tight, the smell of her disappeared under the door, and he opened it with trepidation. It was silent on the other side of the door, but it didn't mean she wasn't on the other side with a crossbow, waiting.

Smashing the door open, Spike whipped around and pressed himself flat against the wall, vampire eyes searching her out in the dark. The crypt was empty. Muscles relaxing, he fumbled with matches, lighting a few candles and taking a look around, making sure the Slayer hadn't messed with his stuff. His eyes lit on the top of his sleeping sarcophagus, narrowing in on the bottle of whiskey there that caught the light and cast an amber shadow. She'd left him booze? And was that his…?

Spike paled. Oh God. She'd gotten hold of his poetry.

He had gone back to the bluff last night to look for the book, distressed when he couldn't find it. He had hoped, prayed, that it had just been kicked over the side, or that perhaps some tourist had picked it up. He knew how bad his poetry was. It had never stopped him from writing it, but he didn't let _anyone_ see it, not anymore. The idea that the Slayer had seen it turned his stomach.

There was something sticking out of the top of the pages; without touching the notebook, Spike slipped the envelope out. He could smell her on the paper, knew her tongue had touched the seal, and the knowledge gave him a strange feeling on the back of his neck. What the hell was her game, leaving him his favorite alcohol, writing him a letter? Sitting down on the edge of the stone coffin, he slit the envelope open and pulled out the paper inside.


	8. Chapter 8

_Spike,_

_I wanted to say I'm sorry. You probably won't believe me, but I didn't want to take the ring from you. I couldn't let you keep it, but… I just wanted you to know._

_I have a… proposal for you. Call it another truce. Something I think might work for both of us. I'll be at the Bronze tomorrow night until midnight. If you think you can stop talking long enough to listen for a minute, come find me._

Spike had read the note half a dozen times, more than a little convinced that being drunk was causing him to hallucinate, see and smell things that weren't really there, but when he woke up the next day in the early afternoon, the letter was just the same. She hadn't signed it, but there was no doubt that it was from her. Even if he couldn't smell her all over the paper, the tone of the message was utterly her; confident as she stated a fact, then turning right around to show confusion and doubt in her own motives. Those last two lines especially were quintessential Buffy, mocking him, demanding something of him even though she didn't actually spell it out, wouldn't actually _ask_.

But what did she want? To say he was intrigued was an understatement. She could've killed him a few days ago, but she hadn't really been trying to, hadn't been giving it her all. The fear in her voice when he had cautioned her that he would burn if she took the ring had thrown him, and now she was apologizing on top of it. What was her game?! What kind of proposal could she possibly have that would benefit them both?

Climbing off of his sleeping sarcophagus, Spike tugged on his jeans and stuffed his feet into his docs before tracing exploratory fingers over the left side of his face. He'd gotten singed pretty badly before he'd gotten to the safety of the caves up on the bluff, and the skin along his cheek and hairline was cracked and painful. Spike grimaced, reminded of the time a few years ago when the Slayer had put him in a wheelchair with his hand, his arm, and half of his face blistered and burned away.

It was probably a trap. Almost certainly a trap. But he couldn't imagine how, what with her meeting him in the Bronze. The club would be packed with people; teenagers, adults, _security_. It was an inconvenient place for a showdown. So what? Was she going to warn him away, give him an ultimatum? Get out of town or else? He scoffed. Fat chance, that. He didn't take orders from anybody, let alone the likes of her.

In a fit of anger, Spike lashed out, pitching the bottle of whiskey she had left against the wall. The glass shattered, sending shards skittering across the stone floor as the alcohol ran down the wall and puddled near the door. Growling in frustration, he rolled his eyes, consciously collecting his thoughts. Bloody waste of good whiskey, that. Best to get himself together before he did something he would really regret, like stomp a pack of cigarettes into the dirt. Speaking of…

Spike pulled a fag from his pocket and lit up, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs to calm himself. So. Not a trap then. So what? Even if the Slayer actually meant what she said, that she really _was_ sorry, why had she admitted it? Pity, commiseration, was a weakness, something he could use against her. What the hell was she doing, exposing that to him, her greatest enemy? There was something dodgy about this whole thing, that much was certain. No doubt his curiosity would get him killed, but Spike was no coward either. He would be at the Bronze tonight, and he would get to the bottom of this mess if he had to choke it out of her.

* * *

In a darkened alcove at the back of the Bronze, Buffy sat on a high stool along the wall, nervously drumming her fingers on the sticky table top. She had arrived at around ten thirty and had immediately ordered a drink, trying to calm the nerves that were raging in her belly, but the alcohol hadn't helped. Now she nursed a watery coke, the ice long melted by the heat of her hand through the red plastic cup.

Glancing at the clock, Buffy frowned. Eleven fifty-five. Unconsciously, her hand snuck down to the edge of her right boot where it rested on the bar of her stool. Earlier that night, she had braided the Gem of Amara into a string bracelet and tied it around her ankle, safely hidden from sight by the hem of her jeans. Realizing what she was doing, she covered the movement by tugging up the edge of her boot.

"Hands where I can see 'em Slayer," a voice purred in her ear. "Was led to believe this was a business meeting, an' stakin's more of a pleasure for you innit?"

Buffy jumped, spinning around on her stool. The clamor of the band banging away on stage and the loud murmur and rapid movement of the crowd had masked his approach, and she suddenly felt like she'd lost a distinct advantage. Glaring at Spike as he moved around the table, she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Cutting it close aren't you?"

"Two minutes till midnight Slayer," he said, hopping onto the stool across from her. "Far as I'm concerned, I made your deadline."

Spike faced her with a wary gaze, and for the briefest moment his face was illuminated by the white flash of the club's strobe lights. Buffy gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. The side of his face was badly burned, the skin red and angry along the edge, a consequence of his little run in the sun. He narrowed his eyes at her reaction, forcing her to drop her hand and sit up a little straighter.

"That bad Slayer?" he asked. "Ruin my pretty face?"

"No." The reply was automatic if sincere, and almost immediately regretted, a blush flooding her cheeks as Spike smirked, scarred eyebrow raised. "It's just… I didn't mean for you to get hurt. Sorta my fault."

"Damn right it is," he scoffed, leaning back in his seat and propping a boot up on the bar beneath the table.

"I feel bad enough without you rubbing it in, thanks," Buffy mumbled sullenly.

Spike eyed her out the side of his head, his stare lingering on her neck. "How bad?" he asked softly, tongue curling behind his teeth.

"Not nearly _that_ bad!" she snapped.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Gave me a good second degree here Slayer," he said, running a finger over his eyebrow along the edge of the burn. "Least you could do is give me one little drink."

"I left you a whole bottle of them if memory serves."

Spike shifted on his stool, eyes roaming the crowd of dancers in front of them. "Yeah, well. That one met with a rather unfortunate end."

"Fine," Buffy sighed, exasperated. Spike's head whipped around, his eyes boring into her. "One little drink."

Hopping down from the stool, Buffy left him at the table, pushing her way through the crowd that filled the dance floor. She had caught a flash of something in the vampire's eyes before she had turned away, something more than the bloodlust. Something that had looked like a disturbing combination of shock, hope, and fear. She could feel those same eyes on her back as she reached the bar, a shiver tripping down her spine.

_How did I lose control of this_? She wondered as she ordered a coke with a whiskey back, a ten dollar bill in her fist. Stepping into the Bronze she had been nervous, true, but she had still felt like she was the one holding the reins. That feeling had left the building the moment Spike had arrived. What was she thinking anyways? Even if he agreed to her plan (and why would he?), was it really something that _she_ wanted to be responsible for? Her friends and her Watcher would crucify her if they found out.

"Seven bucks."

For the second time that night, Buffy jumped. "What?"

"Seven bucks!" the guy behind the bar demanded, pushing two glasses towards her; one of coke, one of whiskey.

Frowning at his tone, Buffy stuffed the ten back in her pocket, instead counting out seven ones onto the counter. Jerk. Grabbing her drinks, she tossed the bartender a sugary smile and headed back to her table. She half expected Spike to be gone, but the bleached glow of his hair assured her he was still there. Clunking the glass of whiskey down in front of him, she took a gulp of her soda before realizing that he was smirking at her.

"What?!" she snapped, her plastic cup crackling in her grip.

"What'd the berk say?" he asked over the edge of his glass, taking a sip of the amber liquid.

She cocked an eyebrow in question.

"That smile was sweet enough to give you a cavity pet," he chuckled. "What'd he say? Offend your fashion sense"

"What's to offend?" she asked, looking down at her sparkly pink top. Spike shrugged, waiting for her answer. "He was rude," Buffy said primly, smoothing the denim over her knees.

"Want me to flash him?" Spike asked suddenly, raising his upper lip to give her a glimpse of teeth grown long and sharp.

Caught off guard, Buffy looked at him with surprise on her face, further confused when the vampire looked quickly down at the table, as though he were ashamed of his offer. Just as fast, he gathered his confidence back up again, finishing off the last of his drink in one go. Buffy watched, strangely entranced by the click of his teeth as he rested them on the rim of his glass, the view of his pale throat as he tipped his head back, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. The clunk of the glass on the table brought her back to attention, her staring apparently unnoticed. Thank God for small favors.

"Um, no thanks," she said, turning her own cup in her hands. "I already stiffed him, so..."

Spike chuckled at her choice of words, but quickly reigned in his mirth when Buffy tossed him a look.

"So," he said, his tone carefully bored and uninterested. "Wha'da ya got for me Slayer?"


	9. Chapter 9

Buffy fidgeted nervously in her seat. It was clear that Spike wanted to dive right into this. That wasn't a surprise; it _was_ his style, but _she_ wasn't really ready to jump in just yet. She wasn't so sure that she wouldn't sink, straight to the bottom. He was glaring at her now, his impatience showing through as he tapped a black-tipped finger on the edge of his glass.

"Did the gallery logs help?" she blurted, half from curiosity, half from the desire to postpone their conversation.

"What?"

He was looking at her like she was crazy. Great. "Um, the gallery logs. My mom said she suggested…"

Spike's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Uh… yeah. Actually. Gem switched families in the eighteen hundreds; had a hell of a time finding it again until I checked." His face darkened and he scowled. "Why are we talkin' about this? Still a bit of a sore subject." He sat back and narrowed his eyes. "Should just crack you over that pretty little head of yours," he hissed quietly. "Got my one drink out of you, and I owe you the hit."

"I just…" Buffy too leaned back from the table, putting a fraction more space between them. No matter how many times she bested him, Spike still managed to make her feel as though the tables could be turned at any moment, and his words had only reminded her of that. She _should_ stake him, eliminate the danger where it sat. Run at the very least. But even as she thought it, the words that came out of her mouth weren't her usual pre-staking quips. "My mom just wanted to know if she helped. It seemed… important to her."

"Yeah, well, send her my regards," Spike said, and Buffy could hear the sincerity in his voice beneath the caustic veil of sarcasm. "I'd stop by and thank her myself, but _somebody_ took the soddin' thing!"

"Yeah, well, she made it pretty clear I'd be grounded if I staked you," Buffy grumbled. "She was pretty pissed when she found out that I took it off you."

Spike suddenly broke into laughter; a full, smiling, happy laugh that lit in his eyes. "Always knew she was a good one," he said lightly.

Buffy felt herself smile; she had never seen him laugh that way before, and she agreed with his estimation of her mother even if she thought the woman had a screw loose sometimes. It was strange to be sitting here in a night club, sharing a drink and a laugh with a man, a _demon_ who had on more than one occasion tried to kill her. But now, in this moment and despite his threats, she felt calm enough, confident enough, and oddly safe enough, to extend her offer.

"So," she began on a breath, setting her coke aside and looking directly at the vampire before her.

"So."

Buffy narrowed her gaze. "Alright listen, this is gonna be really _really_ hard for me to say, so I'm just gonna say it all really fast and get it over with, so don't interrupt or… look at me weird until I'm done."

Spike didn't respond, only looked at her silently with his face carefully schooled into a mask of disinterested boredom. Buffy nodded, taking it as his consent to her request. Deciding to start with the easy stuff, she began explaining her reasons.

"Ok, so here's the deal. I… felt bad. I felt bad taking the ring from you. I mean, you believed that it was real, and you did all the work to find it; the research, reading the books, talking to my _mom_. I'm assuming you did the digging too. The point is, you deserve to get to use it."

It felt good to admit it to him, to get it off her chest. She could have basked in that feeling, the sudden release of tension on that knot that her stomach had become ever since that day on the beach. But she noticed that Spike's eyebrows had quirked in surprise, and so she bulldozed on forward before he did anything more that would throw her off.

"I believe that," she emphasized, more for herself than for him. "What I don't believe is that you could do any more damage in the sun than in the dark. You're a lot less scary in the daytime. Besides…" she said, breezing through Spike's attempt to start a protest, "It's like you said. You had better things to do."

"I fight _evil_!" she cried suddenly, slashing her hands through the air. Her face was hot with emotion as she thought about what she was doing, what her friends and her Watcher would think of what she was doing. Pulling herself together, she sighed tiredly. "As far as I can tell, there's nothing evil about spending a weekend on the beach. Even if that was some sort of diabolical sandcastle, let's be honest. You're plans don't really work out all that often."

Spike narrowed his eyes in indignation, but Buffy kept on, as she'd said she would. She couldn't stop now.

"Even if I think that," she said, "Even if I feel bad, I can't let you just run around with that kind of power. I can't let you hold on to it. Just in case you _do_ decide to pull something."

There she stopped. Running a hand through her hair, she took a breath in preparation before moving on to the next part of her schpeel, but Spike chose the pause to break his silence. She was surprised he'd lasted so long. The double-entendre made Buffy giggle, his words getting lost in the sound.

"What the hell you laughing at Slayer?" he snapped.

"Nothing," she responded quickly, bringing herself back under control. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

A low growl rumbled up out of Spike's chest and he looked away in annoyance. When he looked back at her, his eyes flashed amber. "Why am I here Slayer? Just to make you feel better?" Buffy sent him a confused look and he scoffed. "Please. You _feel_ bad? Quite the little conundrum you've got on your conscience isn't it? No solution though, just wanted me to hear you say it so you aren't so down on yourself?"

"So, what?" she snapped. "You're pissed that I apologized? Is it _hard_ for you, that someone thinks you deserve better than the short end of the stick? Well boo hoo! Do you have any idea how hard this is for _me_?!"

Several of the dancers out on the floor of the club looked their way, Buffy's high, angry voice attracting more attention than she would've liked. Sending them a nasty glare, Buffy turned back to Spike, who was watching her warily from across the table.

"Besides," she muttered, crossing her arms, "I do have a solution."

Spike quirked an eyebrow. "Do ya now?" he asked. "And what might that be pet?"

Buffy frowned, knowing that this was her last chance to walk away. Might as well just get this over with.

"Supervised visitation."


	10. Chapter 10

"Come again?"

Buffy almost flinched at the look on Spike's face. Shock, surprise, confusion, disdain, so many emotions and none of them really good. She had expected him to think she was crazy. Shoot, _she_ thought she was crazy. But it was harder to see staring her in the face. It felt like he was laughing at her.

"I just… I thought this could work," she said defensively. "For both of us."

"And how's that exactly?"

"We do it just like the truce," she explained, trying her best to make the plan inside her head sound less stupid outside of it. "I give you the ring for a day and at the end of it, you give it back. When you have custody we'll be all truce-y, with me not staking you and you behaving yourself."

"How is that a solution?" he scoffed. "You might as well just let me have the thing."

"That's the supervised part… and the sucky part. I follow you wherever to make sure you really do stay out of trouble."

Spike was silent, staring at her hard with narrowed eyes, trying to puzzle out everything she'd said. "It works!" she declared defensively. "You get to use the ring to do all those things that are so much more important than attacking me, which means I don't have to feel bad, and I go with you to make sure you don't do anything stupid, which means I don't have to feel bad! See?" she smiled widely. "Win-win for me."

"Well I'll give you points for creativity pet," Spike said with a tone of incredulity as he leaned back in his chair, looking her over closely. "Sure, sounds like a pretty good deal for _you_, but tell me, why should _I_ jump through all the hoops? Why shouldn't I just take _back_ what you think I deserve so much huh? Bet it wouldn't take me too long," he murmured, suddenly leaning in close. "Think I could _torture_ it out of you Slayer?"

"Oh shut up Spike," Buffy said, with a lot more bravado than she really felt. "Torture was never your thing."

Even if he didn't sound serious, the words had put a chill down her spine. If he decided that's what he really wanted to do, she had no doubt he could. Just another reason to convince him that this plan was a good one.

"What makes you think I won't just take off as soon as you hand the thing over?" he asked, his cockiness returning with his threats, despite her brushing them off as token posturing.

"Why should you?" she asked, ready to throw his own reasoning back in his face. "You have better things to do remember? You'll get to do all those things, _with_ the guarantee of me not staking you for it. No need for taking when there's already giving going on. And I already got it off of you once; why go through all the motions and all the effort for me to just take it again?"

Spike snarled, his lip lifting a little and flashing her some fang. Ok, so maybe that was going a little far. She was trying to convince him to enter another truce, and taunting wasn't going to get him there. Well, she had one last card up her sleeve. It was a gamble, and could very well piss him off even more, but she had to try.

"To feel that light," she began, looking down at the table as she recited his poem to him in a soft voice, "Bright heat on skin. To be lit with that glow. Effulgent." She paused, and silence pounded in her ears. "That… that's what you want, right?"

"Been reading shit you shouldn't Slayer?" Spike rumbled from across the table.

"No!" she responded immediately, looking up at him and glaring. Then she blushed. "Well, ok, I read _that_ one. But that was all! I didn't… I didn't read any more."

Spike ducked his head, and if Buffy didn't know any better, she'd think he was embarrassed. She felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and cover his hand with her own, to reassure him.

"Spike?"

He didn't respond.

"I'm sorry. I knew I shouldn't read it, but I didn't know it was yours until I opened it, I swear!"

Still nothing.

Buffy sighed. "I liked your poem," she confessed on a breath. Then she chuckled softly. "I always hated poetry. But I liked yours. It was… really kinda beautiful. You should read it again."

This time he looked up at her, his heart shining warily in his eyes.

"It helped convince me that this could work," she explained. "It might convince you too."

Getting up from her seat, she pushed her stool in and zipped up her jacket.

"Just think about it, ok?"

Leaving him with his thoughts, she turned away and left the club. She'd done all she could for now. The rest was up to him.

* * *

She liked his poem. The Slayer liked his poem. His. William the Bloody's. What the hell was this world coming to?

Spike had ditched the Bronze as soon as she was out the door, even though it felt a little too much like running for his comfort. Looking to exchange the high-school hang-out for something that catered to _his_ tastes, he had deftly lifted a wallet off a drunken frat boy and headed for Willy's. An hour later, he was two bottles of jack and five kittens in debt. Deciding his head just wasn't in the game tonight, Spike folded.

"I'm out," he declared, tossing his cards down on the table and finishing off the last of his whiskey. Nodding to his poker mates, he arranged to deliver his payment the next week and slipped back into his duster. Exiting the back room, he wasn't surprised when Clem, a friendly demon he'd recently struck up with, followed him out of the bar.

"You all right Spike?" the demon asked with concern, watching as the vampire paused in the street to light a cigarette. "You seem a little distracted."

"Yeah mate," he replied, trying to decide if it would be better to talk about the mess in his head or just let it stew there. "Jus' had a run-in with the Slayer earlier is all."

"Oh. You didn't uh…"

"Nah, bird'll live to annoy another day."

"Well that's new for you isn't it?" Clem asked with a smile.

Spike quirked an eyebrow in his direction. Clem was fairly neutral in his friendships, happy enough to hang out with Spike, but no doubt just as happy hanging with Buffy should the chance present itself.

"Suppose," he said impartially, taking one last drag and crushing out the butt of his smoke. "Girl's looking for another truce."

"You gonna take it?"

Spike shrugged. "Dunno. 'S different than last time. Don't exactly need her help."

"But the truce would make things easier."

"Sure," he replied with a gruff laugh. "But where's the fun in that? Evil here, remember?"

"Don't you get bored though?" Clem asked, a mischievous glint lighting in his eye. "Always playing for the same side?"

Now Spike really laughed, clapping the demon on the shoulder. Clem's definition of mischief was the polar opposite of his; he had a penchant for harmless, child-like pranks while Spike's tendencies leaned towards B and E, pickpocketing, and drunk and disorderly. But he had a point.

"Could be fun I guess," he admitted. "Have to think on it a bit."

"Well let me know how it goes," the demon smiled.

Spike nodded, taking his leave and heading off up the sidewalk towards his crypt. All in all, he didn't think the night had ended too badly. He had a nice thick roll of cash courtesy of daddy's bank account, a pleasant buzz in the back of his head, and despite having lost a few kittens to a Hess demon, he'd gotten some good advice. What he would do with it he wasn't sure, so for now he was just going to go home, kick off his boots, and read some poetry.


	11. Chapter 11

Reading his poetry again didn't make a whole hell of a lot of difference. So maybe it didn't read quite as bad, but it certainly wasn't Yeats or Keaton or Byron. Hell, wasn't even Dickenson or Frost. But it wasn't bad. And the Slayer had liked it.

Spike growled in frustration, tossing his notebook into the drawer of a small end table he'd stolen. The sight of it only irritated him some more; he had started furnishing the crypt as if he were planning on sticking around. God! Why didn't he just leave? What was here for him now?

_A chance at the ring. A chance at the sun_.

Spike snarled, urging the voice in his head to shut up. He could've taken the ring and split, but he stuck around, tempting fate, taunting luck, daring the balance of the world to let the Slayer take it from him. And she had.

But now she was offering it back to him.

And what the hell was he supposed to do with that? Wait until she handed the thing over and then haul ass, that's what.

He shook his head. She'd warned him it wouldn't work if he tried. He'd been cocky last time with the promise of real immortality, the thought that he was invincible, and she'd beaten him then. No doubt she'd had the witch put a little spell on the ring, leash it to her or make it explode of he got too far away.

Maybe not. He had to question whether any of her friends knew what she was up to. The Watcher would certainly have her committed if he had any idea what she planned to do with the Gem, and the other two were no great fans of his after the little drunken escapade last year. So was she serious? Was she actually willing to do this?

Spike flopped into his armchair, slinging an arm over his face. Bloody hell, he was actually considering this. He was actually contemplating being ring-sat by the soddin' Slayer. Cracking one eye, he peered under his arm at the drawer that his notebook sat in.

"So long in darkness," he whispered to the dead around him. "To walk in light."

Was it worth it?

* * *

Three nights later, Buffy traipsed distractedly through Cedar Grove Cemetery, wishing desperately for a vampire to take her mind off of… well, another vampire. She hadn't seen or heard from Spike since their little chat at the Bronze and she was getting impatient. The Gem of Amara banged lightly against her ankle with every step she took, safely out of sight beneath her boots, but unfortunately not out of mind. Speaking of minds, he should have made his up by now.

And that was what was distracting her. She wasn't sleeping properly, only picked at her food, and avoided her friends like the plague. It felt too much like lying to them when she didn't spill her guts about the whole ridiculous mess, and she was starting to think that she should have taken Giles's advice and found a safe place to stash the ring so that she didn't have to constantly be on her guard. If the stupid bleach head didn't get back to her one way or another, she might just smash the thing. That would teach him to keep her waiting!

And speaking of waiting…

Buffy slipped a stake from inside her jacket and tapped it impatiently against her thigh. Her Spidey senses had started tingling a few minutes before, alerting her to the vampire that was stalking her, but it had yet to make a move and she didn't have all night.

"Oh goodness!" she called out loudly. "I just seem to be so lost and helpless! And without my scarf too! My poor neck's just all exposed and vulnerable out here!"

"Don't play the temptress often do you pet?" a low voice replied from behind her.

Whipping around with her stake at the ready, Buffy was both irritated and strangely relieved to find Spike crouched atop a headstone a few yards away, scarred eyebrow quirked in her direction.

"Need some practice," he said dryly.

Slowly, Buffy lowered her stake and stepped closer, skirting around him until she reached a headstone two rows away. His eyes followed her, but other than that he was still, his balance on the narrow stone slab perfect. Lowering herself onto her own seat of choice, she started to cross her ankles and then thought better of it, instead tucking the bejeweled one under her butt. They were both silent for a minute, sizing each other up, gauging the distance between them and the positions each held. Spike was certainly in the better stance, to either fight of flee, but Buffy ignored the little red flag in her brain and instead let herself visibly relax, hoping he would do the same.

He did. Only a bit; he still crouched agilely atop the grave marker, but some of the tension went out of his shoulders, his leather jacket swishing with the movement. Buffy bit back a sigh of relief, instead choosing to be the one to break the staring contest.

"Did you think about what I said?" she asked.

"Haven't thought about much else," he admitted, cocking his head to one side. "Trying to decide if it's worth it."

"Worth what?"

"Worth being stuck with you!" he growled. "Worth being minded like a child. Worth you _being there_ the whole bloody time!"

Buffy frowned. "That's what the wait was all about? You don't want to go with me?" She laughed. "You're no prize yourself buddy! Think I want to spend my weekend following you around to, to punk rock shows?! Or whatever it is that you do?!" Taking a breath, she collected herself and lowered her voice, which had gone high and whiny. Not at all attractive, or conducive to convincing someone that she could be decent company. "All those things you want to do," she began again, "Are they really worth doing by yourself? You really want to be alone Spike?"

He didn't answer, only eyed her in a manner that made her wonder if she had struck a nerve.

"Fine," she sighed. "If my presence is so terrible for you I'll just go." Standing up, she turned to walk away.

"Ok."

"What?" she asked incredulously, turning back around to face him with dropped jaw.

"I said bloody ok," Spike snapped, arms crossing defensively over his chest. "Truce. I'll sodden do it."

Buffy only just managed to stop a 'really?' from coming out of her mouth. Slowly lowering herself back onto the gravestone, she said the only thing she could think of.

"Ok."

Spike rolled his eyes, then looked away, rocking back and forth on his heels a bit. "So now what?" he asked sullenly. "When I got the ring we have a truce; I'm on my best behavior and you follow me around to make sure I don't massacre a preschool? Fine. What happens when you have it?"

"I… guess the truce is off," she said reluctantly, picking at her fingernails. "Friends during the day, enemies at night. Have to keep up appearances after all."

"Not friends Slayer," Spike rumbled softly, though he didn't sound as confident as he had a moment ago. "Weren't friends last time, won't be this time. Can't be."

"Fine," she responded. "Whatever."

Spike narrowed his eyes, but didn't comment.

"I'm free on Sunday," she offered, though she knew that she had already offered the weekend to her friends. She'd have to make an excuse; she didn't think Spike would take it well if she started off this agreement by telling him that she would have to check her little black book and get back with him. So she would be accommodating. Available-Buffy. Totally accessible.

She almost yelped at her own internal monologue. No! Not available! Not accessible! Not for Spike, the evil blood-sucking fiend! She would be… open to scheduling. Yes. That was good. No innuendos there. Snapping back to attention, she found said evil blood-sucking fiend staring at her expectantly.

"What?" she asked dully.

He sneered at her. "Seem to be drifting off quite a bit when I'm around Slayer," he said caustically. "Am I boring you? Perhaps this little truce is the opposite of what you need. Maybe you need a little excitement, a bit of the rough-and-tumble, get you're motor revving?"

"No!" she yelped, throwing up her hands. "No rough-and-tumble! No revving!" He raised an eyebrow, and she lowered her hands, blushing. "I'm sorry," she said. "What did you say?"

"Said I'd like to hit the beach again," he replied. "Didn't quite get my fill of it last time. _Someone_ interrupted."

"No," she responded immediately. "I might be doing this Spike, I'll even 'fess to it being my idea, but I don't trust you, and I'm not stupid. The beach would be an easy place for you to ditch me, especially with the whole vampires not breathing thing. All you'd have to do is dive, swim up the coast and I'd never see you again."

"Not that that would be a bad thing," she added as an afterthought.

He had narrowed his eyes at her immediate refusal, prepared to argue the whole point of this charade if she were going to deny his requests, but she soldiered on through. "No," she repeated. "Let's start with something simple."

She was quiet a minute while she thought, surprised when he too was silent, waiting patiently for her to speak. This was going to be the hard part, she'd known that. All well and good to be hypothetical; she could talk about her plan and explain her reasoning all day, but the actual doing…

She didn't believe for a minute that he wouldn't try to get away with the ring at least once, regardless of her threats. And quite frankly, despite what she'd said earlier, she wasn't sure how she felt about hanging out with Spike. So she needed a plan. It would be best if there weren't a ton of people around, just in case she did have to fight him. Something that didn't take too much of her brain power, so she could stay on guard and watch him carefully. Something that would keep appeal to _him_, and at the same time show him that he could get his sunshine jollies without battling her for possession of the ring. Something that could help her control him…

And just like that, inspiration hit.

"Come over my house," she said. "We'll sun tan in the backyard."

Spike snorted derisively. "Yeah," he scoffed. "That sounds like a blast Slayer."

"It _is_," she defended indignantly. "Snacks, music, sunshine… I'll even buy you some beer." He looked unconvinced. "It's relaxing," she went on, lowering her voice, searching her brain for the words to spin the most enticing picture she could. "The smell of the grass, the way the wind feels on the soles of your feet, the sun on your skin. It just… soaks into you, like…"

She didn't finish, couldn't find the words to describe something so simple, so common, but that would be so rapturous to someone who hadn't experienced it in a hundred years. The look on her face seemed to peak Spike's interest, his face reading sheer curiosity.

"Do this a lot Slayer?" he asked, head tilted to one side.

Buffy frowned. "Not as much as I used to," she said sadly. "It's a luxury, time to spend on yourself." Shaking her head, she narrowed her eyes at him, catching on to the slightly disparaging tone he had used. "And what's so wrong with it if I do?" she asked. "_This_," she said, gesturing to her body and the golden glow she knew she had with one hand, planting the other on her hip, "Takes maintenance. And _you_?" She quirked an eyebrow of her own. "_You_ have a _lot_ of work to do."

"That right?" he asked, jumping off his perch and landing neatly on his feet. With one hand, he reached down and grasped the hem of his t shirt, pulling it up to his chest and looking down at his tight, toned abdomen. "I dunno Slayer," he smirked. "Think I'm good, yeah?"

Buffy didn't honor the comment with a response, only swallowed hard and looked quickly away. She could feel a blush heating her cheeks; she couldn't believe she was about to drool over Spike! Sure, he had an _amazing_ six pack… No! Bad Buffy! Getting up herself, she turned her back on him, tucking her stake into her pocket.

"Just be there," she called over her shoulder. Without waiting for a response, she left the cemetery and headed home.


	12. Chapter 12

Buffy began to put her plans into motion as early as Friday afternoon. She had an emergency cash stash hidden inside a particularly hideous pair of green knitted socks pushed way to the back of her drawer, and after a little hem-hawing, she dipped in and fished out a pair of twenties. She always intended the money for shoe-shopping, but for some reason she wasn't _super_ annoyed to be spending it on Spike. Not that she would be shelling out for _all_ of their little da…

_Oh. My. God_.

She was planning a date with Spike. With wide eyes, Buffy let out a series of silent, horrified screams, her hands waving around dramatically. Luckily, no one was around to witness her behavior. And she fully intended to keep it that way. She was happy enough now to pay for snackage; if he had been paying for this first... 'activity,' it would have seemed way too much like the other. That thing that this was not. That she would _never_ associate with this again.

Slipping into a pair of flip-flops and sunglasses, Buffy tucked the money inside the pocket of her sundress and walked up the street to the corner store. Grabbing a blue plastic basket, she began to peruse the aisles for snacks, slightly unnerved by her 'what would Spike like?' train of thought. Picking out a few bags of spicy corn chips, she moved on to the cooler section, grabbing a case of the beer she'd promised him and selecting a big bottle of fruit-flavored tea for herself. Next came a pack of bubble gum and then there was only one thing left.

She hummed softly to herself as she examined the store's collection of tanning lotions. There were only about six to choose from, but it was the concept that was so nice. She was going to spend an afternoon sun tanning. It was such a normal thing, something she enjoyed so much but had really been unable to do for so long. Even if she could have chipped out an hour or two to spend on herself, she was usually too sore or exhausted to capitalize on it. That day on the beach was the first she had spent relaxing in a long while, and look how that had turned out.

Still, she should probably thank Spike. Picking up two of the bottles, she uncapped them and sniffed at the gooey liquid inside. It wasn't like he was directly responsible for her new weekend plans, but he was giving her an excuse to take some time off. She didn't have any illusions; she still had to spend that time with a _vampire_, William the Bloody at that. She would be on her guard the whole time, and she truly believed that when… _if_ she ever let him start choosing the venue of their little day trips, he _would_ choose things based on how much they would annoy her.

Buffy sighed. She didn't want to think about the future, what would happen eventually, because even if this worked, it couldn't go on forever. So instead, she thought about the choice in front of her, the choice she held in her hands right now. Black Cherry, or Tropical Coconut? Another couple of sniffs and coconut came out on top. Why couldn't all decisions be so easy?

Checking out, Buffy left the air conditioned sanctuary of the store and headed home, a paper bag in each hand. Since she'd run into Spike on the beach, she was taking a lot more notice in the way the sun skipped off the glass windows of storefronts and the way it warmed the top of her head as it beat down on her hair. It was a lovely day.

After she got back home, she headed into the kitchen and began pushing things around in the refrigerator to make room for her tea and Spike's beer. She still had her head inside the door when she heard her mom come through the front door.

"Hey mom!" she called.

"Buffy please don't shout through the house that way," Joyce replied, coming into the kitchen with her own armload of grocery bags. "Oh! Sweetie I wish you'd told me you were going to do the shopping, you could have saved me the trip," she chuckled lightly.

Buffy smiled, stepping over to take a few bags from her mom. "Sorry," she replied, "I just went down to the drug store to grab some snacks."

"Don't tell me we're out of junk food again! I _wonder_ where it could have gone!"

"Hey!" Buffy protested, pushing the milk onto the shelf next to the beer, "I'm not the one who ate all the caramel corn during a Tom Hanks movie-thon!"

Joyce laughed as she loaded cereal boxes into the pantry, and Buffy decided that it was a good time to ask for her favor. "Hey mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you busy on Sunday?"

"No, I don't think I have any plans." She turned around and faced Buffy with a confused little smile. "Why?"

"Well I was wondering if you would mind sticking around at home. Maybe work in the flower beds in the backyard or something?"

"You want me to weed the flower gardens?"

"Not exactly…" Buffy dallied. "It's just…"Circling around the counter, she planted her hands on the top of the island and gave her mom the sternest look she could muster. "Ok you can't tell _anyone_ about this! Like, you are sworn to secrecy. If this got out…"

"Buffy! What's going on?" Joyce asked, concern flashing across her face. "Is everything alright?"

"Promise," Buffy demanded, unwilling to speak a word of her secret before her mother swore on her only child's life not to breath a word. "Promise you won't say anything."

"Alright Buffy, I promise! Goodness! Now tell me this moment! What is wrong?"

Buffy dropped her head to the counter and wrapped her arms over it. "IinvitedSpikeover," she mumbled quickly.

"What?"

"I said I invited Spike over!" she cried miserably.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Joyce scoffed, going back to her groceries. "Why in the world would you make such a big deal out of that? He's been over several times."

"What? Spike has been…" Buffy shook her head and held up a hand. "Nope. Don't wanna know." Glaring at her mother, she started again. "I invited Spike over to sun tan in the backyard on Sunday. I'm gonna let him use the Gem of Amara. I can't trust him with it…"At this point, Joyce aimed a disapproving look in her direction, but Buffy pushed through, "So I need to keep an eye on him when he has it."

"And what does this have to do with me gardening?"

"He likes you," Buffy admitted reluctantly. "I don't know why, but he seems to look up to you."

"Did you ever think that perhaps he's lonely Buffy? That perhaps he misses having a family, or someone that he can confide in and seek advice from? He may be over a hundred years old, but he is still a young man in many ways. I would imagine that he misses his own mother. If I can ease that in any way, I will."

Buffy was silent for a few minutes, thinking about that while her mom finished putting the groceries away. She didn't think of Spike that way, as having had a family and being alone. She had only ever thought of him as another vampire, a soulless, extremely dangerous one. Unsure of what to do with her mom's little lecture, she pushed it away into the back of her mind where she could revisit it later. Maybe.

"The point is," she continued, "That I think he'll be better behaved if you're around. I don't want to fight him mom," she whispered.

Joyce smiled sadly at her young daughter, a girl too young to be carrying the fate of the world on her shoulders. "If Spike gave you his word in this little agreement of yours, I don't think you need to worry," Joyce smiled, stroking the hair back from Buffy's face. "But if it will help, if it will make you feel safer, of course I'll be here."

"Thanks mom."

Joyce smiled and walked out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs.

"But you still can't breathe a word of this!" Buffy cried out after her. "Seriously, do _not_ tell Giles, or Willow, or Xander, or _anyone_!"

"Buffy, I don't exactly call up your friends or your librarian for chats," Joyce called back as she climbed the stairs. "But tell me, exactly how do _you_ plan on keeping it a secret from them?"


	13. Chapter 13

She planned on doing it by lying. She wasn't proud of it. Part of her didn't think it would work. But she didn't know what else to do. So when Saturday came, she did what she'd promised, and gave the day to her friends. She met Xander and Willow in the late morning for brunch at a local coffee shack and immediately began to put together her deception.

"Hey Buffster, you all right?" Xander asked, his mouth stuffed full of a Denver omelet. "You're doing a better job slaying that French toast than eating it."

Buffy looked down at her plate, where she had been methodically slicing her sugar dusted breakfast into neat squares for the last fifteen minutes. She could smell cinnamon and vanilla and it made her stomach grumble. Spike had better appreciate this.

"Yeah," she responded, trying to keep whine out of her voice. "Guess I'm just not very hungry. Want it?"

Xander smiled, reaching across the booth to pull her plate towards him, and Buffy had to make an effort not to stab at his hand with her fork. She should have eaten before she came. She rolled her eyes at herself, settling back in her seat.

"Stupid vampire," she muttered under her breath.

"Hey, no vampire talk today!" Willow chided, waving her spoon at Buffy. "It's a no-vampire weekend!"

"Well, of course it is!" Buffy yelped, her eyes going wide as she was brought out of her grumblings. "Why wouldn't it be? Nope. No vampires here! Taking the whole weekend off with my friends."

Willow and Xander looked at each other before looking back at Buffy.

"Umm, yeah," Willow responded. "Right."

"So," Xander cleared his throat, pushing away his empty plates and picking up his coffee cup. "What's the game plan?"

* * *

They eventually decided on an easy day of movie watching, snacks, card games, and philosophical discussion, topped off by an evening at the Bronze. Quick stops at the video store and convenience store stocked them up on old action flicks and munchies that Buffy would not be partaking of, setting up her ruse of a developing flu virus. She was horribly anxious the entire time, her heart beating angrily against her breastbone.

'_Stay calm, stay calm, don't blab_,' she chanted in her head.

Her nerves must be getting to her. All she wanted to do was blurt out everything that was going on, admit to her folly and then beg to be locked up in the looney bin. Good God, if they knew what she had planned, if they knew that she was lying to them…

'_Easy Buffy. Keep it together_.'

Heading over to Willow's place, they commandeered the living room without any fear of interruption, her parents being away on some sort of retreat. For the rest of the afternoon they worked their way steadily through their movies, played a few rounds of rummy, and then some poker. She lost every hand. Badly. She was far too preoccupied to focus on the cards or the banter.

"Buffy are you all right?" Willow asked, some small concern on her face. "You seem a little distracted."

"Just… feeling a little weird," Buffy said.

"You sick?" Xander reached a hand over and pressed it to her forehead. "You might be a little warm," he concluded. "Honestly I never really got the whole fever check down."

Buffy smiled at her goofy friend. She had missed this; this calm, easy hanging out, no apocalypses to deal with. She just wished she could really enjoy it. That she wasn't so actively deceiving them. "I think I'm ok," she answered him, putting some uncertainty into her tone. "Should we head out to the Bronze?"

"We don't have to go if you're not feeling well," Willow assured her.

"No, I'm fine. Really. Let's go!"

* * *

The walk was pleasant, no vampires or demons leaping out at them to delay their arrival. It was a quiet night, and Buffy had to wonder if it was a bad omen or a good one. Shaking it off, she entered the club and determined that she would spend the next two hours enjoying herself. A couple of fruity cocktails later and she was successfully ignoring her impending date with doom.

'_Grrr_,' Buffy growled to herself as she finished off her pink drink. '_There's that word again_.'

Must be the alcohol. It really _was_ far too easy to obtain; no one in this town ever seemed to card. Someone should really look into that.

"What?" Willow shouted over the beat of the music.

Apparently she'd spoken out loud.

"Nothing!" Buffy shouted back. She supposed it was time to finish off her plan. Grabbing her purse, she put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Little girl's room!" she explained.

She was rewarded with a flash of concern across Willow's face. Moving quickly through the crowd before she could suggest joining her or ask what was wrong, Buffy was pleased to find that the line for the bathroom was non-existent tonight, and slipped inside, twisting the lock behind her. Pulling out her secret weapon, a bottle of her mom's foundation, she rubbed a thick layer over her face, making sure that she couldn't see any lines or smudges. Using a paper towel to dampen her temples and her upper lip, she left the bathroom significantly paler than she'd arrived. She was hoping the blue and white lights over the dance floor would do the rest.

"Woah, Buff!" Xander exclaimed as she approached, "You don't look so good."

"Buffy, are you ok?" Willow asked.

"I'm not feeling so well," she said slowly, as though admitting something she didn't want to. Her heart was pounding in her chest with the lie; she didn't realize just how hard it would be to tell this kind of lie to the people she cared about the most. "Little nauseas."

"Do you wanna go?" Willow queried, about to go into full-fledged mother-mode.

"No, no!" Buffy cut her off, nipping that in the bud. "I don't wanna wreck you guys' night. Stay, have fun. I'm just gonna go early, go to sleep. Hopefully I can ward this off before it actually hits."

"You sure? We could walk you home," Xander offered.

"No way," she insisted. "You guys stay here and have fun. I'll call you later ok?"

* * *

She waited two and a half hour before she called. They would be thoroughly concerned by that point. Plus, it gave her time to 'be sick.' Dialing Willow's phone, she only had to hold for one ring before she picked up.

"Buffy? Are you ok?"

"Ugh, no," Buffy moaned into the phone, rather convincingly if she did say so herself. "I definitely have the flu."

"Really?" Willow asked, shooting her 'convincing' rating down in flames. "I thought Slayer's don't really get sick."

"Well I am. All over the place. It's gross," Buffy replied indignantly. "Besides, I've been sick before. Remember that time when I got stuck in the hospital with that nightmare-sickness demon thing?"

"I didn't mean it that way Buffy," Willow backpedaled. "Of course you're allowed to be sick. I'm just… worried. This isn't like you."

"I know, and it sucks."

"Do you want me to come over and stay with you?"

"No! Don't you dare Willow!" This was the most important part of this whole charade. "You and Xander stay away! I am gross and puking, and I'm _sure_ I'm contagious. I would feel even worse if you guys got sick."

"Well if you're sure…"

"I am. Very sure. I'm just gonna try to sleep and maybe have some soup between toilet hugs. My mom's here, so I'll be ok. Eventually."

"All right. Just… call me tomorrow ok? Let us know you're still alive?"

"No problem. Uggg, gotta go," she gurgled. With a click, she hung up, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Mission accomplished.


	14. Chapter 14

Buffy's sleep was rather fitful that night, filled with tossing and turning and strange dreams about Spike. Strange because he wasn't trying to kill her, and because the sun was always shining brightly down on him. Mostly he just watched her, his head cocked to the side and his eyes filled with a puzzled confusion. Sometimes he would talk to her, but when she woke up she couldn't remember what he had said.

When she finally gave up on any decent rest and dragged herself out of bed, it was already half past ten. Unsure of what time Spike would be showing up, she was frankly surprised he wasn't there already, capitalizing on the time she had allotted him. Trying to shrug away the weirdness that was already clinging to this day, she jumped quickly in and out of the shower before throwing her hair up into a messy topknot. Finding the black two piece she had worn to the beach on the day this whole crazy deal had started, she tugged some jean shorts and a purple t shirt on over top and made her way downstairs, only to find herself wanting to go right back up.

Her mother was dusting.

Of all the chores that keeping a house and a teenage daughter entailed, dusting was the one thing that Joyce absolutely hated and would without fail pass off to Buffy. This meant that it usually only happened on the rare visit of Buffy's grandparents or when an esteemed guest from the gallery was due to drop by. But there she was, her hair tied back under a flowery scarf, dancing around the living room with a feather duster as she hummed along to the Sunday oldies playing on the radio.

"Mom?" Buffy asked incredulously, "What are you doing?"

"Oh, good morning sweetie!" Joyce called over her shoulder as she danced her way to the television and began to wave her feathers around behind it. "I just thought I'd tidy up a bit before Spike arrives. You know he always drops in so unexpectedly I never really have time to prepare."

"Prep… huh?"

"Honestly, I don't know what impression he must have," Joyce replied, moving on to the bookshelf that housed several pieces of pottery.

"Wait, you're worried about what _Spike_ thinks about your _housekeeping_?" Buffy asked dumbfounded. "Mom, he lives in a _crypt_!"

"Which is probably nicer than your room at the moment young lady. I hope you don't intend to let him see _that_ mess."

Buffy gagged. "Like I would _ever_ let _Spike_ in my bedroom. And besides, he's a _boy_. Shouldn't you be threatening me not to even think about it, and, and warning me to keep the doors open at all times?"

Joyce tutted. "Spike's a gentleman Buffy. And you don't seem overly fond of him, so I hardly feel I have to worry. It's too bad really, he is a dear."

Buffy stared bug-eyed at her mother's back, her mouth open in shock and horror. Had her mother just suggested… did she have a crush on… Turning around without another word, Buffy left the living room, shaking her head frantically in an effort to head off her train of thought, and the sudden surge of defensiveness she felt when he mom had praised the vampire. For a moment there she had almost felt… territorial? But that was stupid, because it wasn't like she wanted Spike to herself. Shimmying her shoulders in an exaggerated shudder, she headed for the kitchen and the promise of some peanut butter toast.

Joyce sighed when her daughter came back through the living room, nibbling her breakfast as she went. The sound of the vacuum being lugged out of the hall closet chased her up the stairs, though she couldn't muster the guilt she should feel at dribbling toast crumbs over the hardwood. She could not believe that her mother was playing house for Spike. It was just a little bit ridiculous. Of course… so was the rest of this charade.

She had snagged the cordless phone while she'd been downstairs, and now, safe in her room and toastless, she took a bracing breath and dialed Willow.

"Buffy?!" came the immediate reply, concern coloring the voice which answered.

"Hopefully not your standard greeting," Buffy groaned into the phone.

"Oh no!" Willow whimpered consolingly. "You're still sick!"

"Yeah. I am definitely sick Buffy. Mom says it's one of those twenty-four hour things, so I should be getting better by tomorrow. But for now… life sucks."

"Do you want me to bring you some soup?" Willow asked, "Keep you company?"

"No way Wills," Buffy replied firmly. '_God_,' she prayed, '_Just let it go Wills_. _Just go along with this_.' "I do _not_ want you _or_ Xander coming over here and getting what I have. And trust me, you don't either."

"Well, if you're sure…"

"I am. Just gonna spend the day sleeping and hopefully not puking. I'm just… really sorry that I had to bail on you guys." Sincerity wracked Buffy's voice, tightening her throat and making her eyes go dry. "Really. I… I _wanted _to hand with you guys."

"Relax Buffy," Willow laughed lightly. "We aren't mad or anything. I mean, you sound pretty miserable; it's not like you're just ditching us for your _other_ best friends."

Buffy almost puked for real this time, so great was the wave of guilt that overcame her.

"Just promise you'll stay hydrated ok? Lots of fluids."

"Ermp."

"Bye. Feel better!"

Buffy threw the phone onto her bedspread as though it had turned into a poisonous spider-demon. Letting out an exasperated growl, she gripped fistfuls of hair at her temples, tugging in frustration. What was she doing? Lying to her friends, making deals with Spike… well, that wasn't so unusual, she'd done _that_ before. It was the… _personal _side of this she was having trouble with. She was doing this to help Spike, because she felt bad for him. The only thing she was getting out of it was less of those bad-feelies, and she wasn't sure that mattered in the grander scheme of things.

Still stewing, she dove into the closet in search of her old picnic quilt; a thread blanket in red, white, and blue that she'd purchase some Fourth of July years ago. Pulling it from beneath a crumpled shoe box, she brought it to her nose and took a deep breath, rubbing the cloth against her cheek. It smelled of flowery fabric softener and sunshine, the fabric worn and soft from months of use and multiple washes. It was a comforting sensation, much in the same way the sun tanning it was used for was. Climbing back out of the closet, she grabbed her sunglasses and shoved them on top of her head, collecting her tanning lotion, battery-powered stereo, and a magazine before heading back downstairs.

Lugging her heavy armload towards the kitchen, she was too busy trying to balance a couple of tape-decks atop the pile to notice the voices that emanated from within. Rounding the corner, she dumped her armload onto the island and got her first look over the top of it. And gulped.

"Spike," she said slowly.

"Slayer."


	15. Chapter 15

Buffy was melting, she was sure of it. What with the way the ring was burning a hole in her pocket and the way Spike was staring at her, searing heat in icy blue eyes, she could _feel _her skin scorching, and she wasn't even outside yet. Neither of them spoke, the Slayer nor the vampire; neither moved. Joyce looked between the two with a small smile tilting at her lips, before noisily placing her tea cup into the sink and thereby breaking the heavy tension hanging over the room.

"It's wonderful seeing you again Spike," Joyce smiled, coming around the island to place a gentle hand briefly on his shoulder. "I'll just be tittering about the house today, so if my daughter is less than hospitable, don't feel that you have to go. I'd be more than happy to entertain you; it's always nice to have another adult of good tastes in the house."

Buffy's eyes went wide as saucers at her mother's behavior. She couldn't tell if her mom was flirting or not, but it sure looked like it to her! And that was just… well just wrong! Because it was a vampire sitting in their kitchen. It was Spike!

"Thank you Joyce," Spike replied in a strangely polite and cultured tone of voice. "It's been a pleasure, as always." His gaze flicked over to buffy almost sheepishly, before returning to Joyce. "I'll try not to be such a stranger. Perhaps I can stop by the gallery sometime… that is if Buffy is amenable."

"Don't let her boss you around dear," Joyce said, shooting Buffy a playful glare, which she did not return in any way. With one more smile for the bleached pain in her butt, Joyce dropped a kiss onto Buffy's forehead and left the kitchen, abandoning the two to each other's mercies.

There was a substantial beat of silence in which they simply stared at each other, something that Spike apparently couldn't handle long, because he broke the silence with a single, heavy word.

"Well?"

Well. Didn't that just sum it all up? Buffy's fingers twitched nervously near her pocket, a movement that the vampire's keen senses did not miss. Standing swiftly from his chair he took two long strides towards her, his eyes fixed on the tiny knot beneath her denim that was the Gem. Buffy had backed away from his aggressive approach before she'd realized it, her back hitting the kitchen wall so that he practically had her pinned, her senses screaming. Spike paid no attention to her pounding heartbeat. His only fixation was the ring.

Buffy felt her hand come up of its own volition and press flat to his chest, just over his heart where a stake would go. Ignoring the way the soft fabric of his shirt felt under her fingers, the smooth, solid plane of his pectoral, she firmly pushed him back. To her great surprise, he let himself be moved, stepping away from her and allowing her to breathe again. She couldn't believe that he backed off, that he didn't just attack and run; even more she couldn't believe that the promise of the ring was stronger than that of her Slayer blood. There was a strange feeling like indignation there, like jealousy. But that couldn't be right could it? It was just this day, this whole weird thing with Spike actually being in her home on a Sunday afternoon to sun tan.

Shoving her fingers deep into her pocket, she closed them around the ring and clenched it tight in her fist. Shifting on her feet, she watched Spike carefully, saw the hunger that glinted in his eyes, fixated on the place where her wrist disappeared inside her jeans. Eventually, when she didn't move to pull it out, he looked up, locking his gaze on hers.

"Don't run Spike," she said flatly, trying desperately to control her voice. "You don't need to. Don't _have_ to. I'm giving this to you, going on good faith. You said you had better things to do, agreed to this. You've always been honest with me. Even from the beginning."

"Yeah," he responded in a hoarse voice. "I have. Doesn't matter though, does it? You don't trust me Slayer. Else you wouldn't be givin' me this little speech. I don't expect you to," he said, raising a palm to ward off the rant that threatened to explode out of her. "You'd be pretty stupid to in fact. But it's like you said. This'll work… for now. So why not?"

While his words didn't satisfy her, certainly didn't inspire confidence, she nodded hesitantly. Quickly, in case she chickened out, she jerked her fist from her pants pocket and held it out, unfurling her fingers to present the ring nestled in the flat of her palm. She expected him to snatch it, for a hand to dart out and take it before she could even blink. Spike didn't move. He stood like he was frozen, staring, and when he finally did, it was slowly. Without taking his eyes off the ring, he slipped out of his leather duster, draping it over a kitchen stool beside his ratty blanket. He wouldn't be needing them.

Reaching out a tentative hand, he let it hover over her open palm, his eyes flickering up to hers as if looking for a trick. Or permission.

"Take it Spike," she urged, putting some bravado into her voice. "We're losing daylight here."

Sneering at her, he plucked the jeweled band from her hand and slipped it onto one slim, tapered finger. He had a poet's hands. Piano hands. The tension visibly went out of his shoulders once it was in place, and Buffy could practically feel his muscles relax. A moment of fear shot through her as she wondered; was it really the sunlight that Spike had wanted? Or was it about the invincibility all this time? Did he feel safer with the ring? Desperate for a distraction, to control the situation before it went deadly south, she picked up the pile of junk she'd deposited on the island and thrust it into his arms.

"Carry this," she commanded, stepping over to the refrigerator and pulling out Spike's beer. Tucking her bottle of tea under her arm, she grabbed a bowl of grapes from the top shelf and the corn chips from the counter. Shuffling her load, substantially smaller than Spike's but still an armful she led the way to the back door and opened it without a thought, stepping out into the backyard. Three steps out into the grass on bare feet, she realized that Spike hadn't followed.

Whipping around, the sight of him standing in the doorway hit her like a sledge hammer. He stood at the threshold, his arms full of junk, staring down at his boots just inches away from the slash of noontime sunlight that edged inside the house. She could see his hand flexing around the edge of her radio, as if he were reminding himself that the ring was snug on his finger. Sitting her load down on the grass, she stepped back towards him, half reaching out a hand to touch his forearm before dropping it back to her side.

"Is it always this hard?" she asked softly.

Spike looked up at her with uncertain eyes, but spoke with conviction. "Yes."


	16. Chapter 16

Spike chuckled to himself, but there wasn't any humor in the sound. "You know," he said wryly, "I remember what it was like; the sun. Before it became a raging ball of death. Not that there was all that much of it in the good ole mother land, but I _do_ remember. And you wouldn't think it would be this hard." He was silent a moment, contemplative, then he laughed again, looking up at her with a sad sort of smile. "But I guess a century of darkness'll do that to a bloke, yeah?"

Buffy didn't answer. She didn't have the authority to speak on the subject. She didn't have to think twice about walking out into her backyard, could walk into the sun without a moment's hesitation. She didn't know what it was like to constantly be on her guard for something that was so innocuous to most, to have to always be protecting herself against something that was so hard to avoid, so powerful, so encompassing. She couldn't imagine that life. So she simply returned his look, that little, sad sort of smile, and this time she really did touch her hand lightly to his forearm.

"It's ok," she reassured smoothly, covering the wealth of emotion zipping through her chest. "Come on."

The first two steps were painful, she could see it. They brought him fully into the sunlight, and for a moment his body went rigid, every muscle tensed so tightly it could shatter as he fought against one hundred years of instinct screaming alarm bells in his head. It only lasted a moment, all of him going slack as he realized that he wasn't going to burst into flames. A doofy grin unfurled over his face, a sigh slipping from between his lips as he tipped his head back, raising his face to the sun. He arms almost loosed the mound of junk he held all over her feet, and she jumped forward to catch her stereo before it fell, meeting him an in awkward sort of hug, the thick blanket still thankfully wadded up between them.

Spike gave her a surprised look, jolted by the sudden change. Buffy gave him an exaggerated eye-roll, taking the stereo from him and grabbing firm hold of his wrist.

"Come on," she repeated, giving him a good tug.

Taking a few more steps out into the center of the lawn, she sat the radio down on the grass and indicated that Spike should do the same. He quickly relieved himself of his burden, going right back to staring at the sky, his arms held slightly out from his body. Buffy rolled her eyes again, taking the blanket from the pile and snapping it open, fluffing it out over the grass. What a dope. Of course she really couldn't blame him. After one hundred years in the dark, she imagined she might appreciate the sunlight a bit more herself. And after all, wasn't that exactly what this was all about?

Tipping her sunglasses down onto her nose, she watched Spike quietly through the lenses for a moment and actually found herself enjoying the look of calm contentment on his face. She had helped to put that look there. If that didn't go a long way towards chasing off the bad-feelies, she didn't know what would. Turning around so that her back faced him, she quickly shucked off her jean shorts.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he yelped.

Buffy whipped back around, the wide-eyed look of terror on the vampire's face absolutely priceless, and entirely worth all the trouble. "Didn't think I was going for a farmer's tan did you?" she quipped, pulling off her tee. She ran her eyes up and down the length of his frame, taking in the boots and the jeans, the shirt. "On that note, are you?"

Spike scowled at her, doing what Buffy considered an admirable job of looking her in the eye and not taking a detour over her now bikini-clad body. In one swift move as though he had been challenged, he had toed off his boots and whipped his shirt up and over his head. Functional thought seemed to go out the window for her at that point, her gaze stuck on the loveliness that was his bare upper chest. His biceps and pectorals flexed and swelled nicely as he moved, his hands working his belt buckle. Hooking his thumbs in his waistband, he moved to push his jeans down over his hips, but Buffy let out a very un-Slayer-like squeak, clapping one hand over her eyes and throwing the other up in a stopping motion.

"Not _here_!" she cried. She had a very nasty feeling that Spike went commando.

"Oh shield your maiden's eyes Slayer," he drawled sarcastically.

Peeking out tentatively between two fingers, Buffy was immensely relieved to find that he had been wearing his swimming trunks under his jeans, the same bright blue ones from that day on the beach. Sitting down warily on one side of the blanket, she drew her knees up towards her chest and reached for her bottle of tanning lotion, keeping a close eye on the shifty vampire as he edged around her to the other side of the quilt. He eyed her cagily for a moment, but once he was sitting he seemed to give up on any pretense or propriety between them, flopping down on his back and curling his arms beneath his head, stretching his body out full length next to her. Though his posture was relaxed, Buffy could feel his eyes still on her as she rubbed lotion into her legs, belly, chest and arms. He was on his guard, and she would be too.

Popping a cassette into her radio, she turned the volume down to pleasant background noise and lay back as well, her arm only inches from Spike's side. They were completely silent for a handful of minutes, minutes that seemed to stretch out into an eternity. Both were primed, wound tight waiting for the other to make the first move, to attack or to flee. Spike's laughter broke the silence, a light, honest laughter that had warmth blossoming both in Buffy's cheeks and in the pit of her belly.

"What's so funny?" she demanded, though the playful tone of her voice belied her annoyed words.

"Oh, come off it Slayer," he chuckled low in his throat, tipping his head to the side to look at her, flashing a wide, white grin. It was so different from the ones he usually gave, not snarky or lascivious, just happy, that she had to smile herself. Just a little. "This is ridiculous and you know it."

"It is not," she grumbled.

"Sure it is. Look at us. The Slayer and the Slayer of Slayers, side by side and tight as French tops." He laughed again, his face rolling back to the sky as he arched his back and resettled himself. "God, all it would take is _half_ a glimpse of this by any demon and one hundred years of history'd be out the window. Have to massacre half the bleedin' world all over again to get my reputation back."

"You?!" she cried incredulously. "What about _me_? Do you have any idea what it would mean if my friends, or God-forbid _Giles_, found out what I was doing right now?"

"Not allowed free time anymore Slayer?"

There was that smirk she was so used to, that sly curl of his lips with just a bite of cruelty behind it. "Not allowed to spend it with _you_," she replied nastily. "You're a bad influence. You're bad influency."

Spike snorted derisively. A moment later he rolled to his side, leaning forward to pull a glass beer bottle from its cardboard case. Twisting off the cap with deft fingers, he tipped it back and took two long pulls, smirking around the rim of the bottle when he caught Buffy staring at his throat. Her sunglasses didn't hide her eyes as well as she thought. Turning slightly on his side, he leaned back on one elbow and grinned down at her.

"No, I don't imagine that I'd know just what your friends would think pet," he said, picking up the thread of their conversation again. "Though I could wager a guess." His smile turned devious as he tucked his tongue behind his teeth. Was he _trying_ to make her blush? Reaching out with his free hand, he made as if to trail a fingertip down her arm, but it never touched her skin. "But I can tell you what the demon world would think," he murmured in a voice that went low and rough, his eyes glinting amusedly.

Buffy flushed. _Never_ gonna happen. "You're a pig Spike," she declared, flinging her hand out sideways to slap him. Her hand cracked pleasantly against the skin that lay tight over his ribs, and for a second she didn't recognize what was so strange about the action. Then it clicked.

"Holy crap!" she cried, rolling into a sitting position and flinging her hands forward to press her palms flat against him. One landed home on his toned abdomen, the other headed towards the center of his chest, but never made it. Spike's own hand flashed up, latching onto her wrist in a vice-like grip before she could even blink. They stared at each other silently, both of them shaken before Spike slowly released her, peeling his fingers away one at a time. He might have muttered something like 'sorry,' but Buffy couldn't tell. It had been a stupid thing for her to do, to lunge for his chest like that. She'd forgotten for a moment… who they were.

Spike's gaze flicked down to the hand that was pressed flat against his belly, reminding her of what had so surprised her. "You're hot!" she said dumbly, splaying her fingers a little, her shock by this point somewhat reduced. And it was true. His skin was smooth and perfect and _warm_ beneath her palm, and she had to fight a sudden urge to trail her fingers over him, to lean in close and find out if she could smell the sunshine on him.

"Yeah… thanks Slayer, but this is exactly what I was talking about."

Buffy looked up from her perusal of his abdominals, blinking stupidly. He had pulled back from her, his arms opening in a placating manner, his beer held aloft in one hand. He had a strange look on his face; confused, surprised, amused… afraid. Buffy jerked her hands back, suddenly aware that she had basically been drooling while she pawed at him.

"Shut up Spike," she snapped in an effort to cover all the things roiling around in her brain. Scooching away, she crossed her legs and picked up a magazine, cracking it open in her lap and pretending to ignore him. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

She expected a laugh, or for him to make fun of her, but he did neither, only tipped up his beer and finished it in one long gulp, setting the bottle aside and reaching for another. Buffy began paging slowly through her tabloid, looking for an article juicy enough to get her mind off her thoughts. Why had she done that? Had she really just had her hands all over Spike? And Holy Moly, had he felt good! No! No, BAD Buffy!He could _kill_ you, he's been trying to for years. What are you doing? He's a short fuse, a bomb waiting to go off...

So why hadn't he struck when she had gone and slammed her palm into his chest? He could have snapped her wrist like a popsicle stick. She wouldn't have blamed him; it would've been purely reactionary, purely defensive. But he hadn't done it. He'd only stopped her from touching him, from putting a dangerous hand over his heart.

"So why are you doing this Slayer?" his voice broke in. He'd flopped back onto his back, twirling his bottle in a circle idly with one finger on the rim. His eyes were shut as he soaked in the sun beating down on them, but his scarred eyebrow was still raised in question.

Buffy frowned. "I already explained this to you Spike. I felt bad. I didn't think you deserved to get shafted like that when you weren't doing anything wrong."

In one quick move that almost had her flinching`, Spike rolled upright once again, facing her Indian style, his eyes intent on hers.

"Bull shit," he said, softly but emphatically as he leaned in towards her. "Even if you do feel bad, what the hell's that got to do with anything? You'd get over it, you always do. Hell, you _killed_ your boyfriend the poof, sent him straight to hell; you telling me you didn't feel bad about that?"

Buffy slapped him full across the face.

Her hand stinging, she leapt to her feet and he followed suit, their fists balled at their sides. "How dare you!" she hissed. "What I did or didn't feel about Angel is none of your business! It has nothing to do with you or with this!" She gestured angrily between them, though the space between their two bodies hardly existed as each strained towards the other in a fighting stance.

"That what you tell yourself Slayer?" he asked, a red mark in the shape of a handprint quickly growing on the side of his face. "That it doesn't matter?"

"Of course it mattered," Buffy spat. "Past tense. It's over! History! It's got nothing to do with now!"

"Yes it does!" Spike snarled, his teeth showing sharp. "It's never over, not after years! Are we disposable to you? If it was _ever_ love, you couldn't just walk away from me!"

A look of horror fell over Spike's face as he recognized his slip, and Buffy imagined hers was probably much the same. The vampire took two hasty steps back and away from her, his body trembling with locked up emotion. He looked ready to bolt, she could see it in his eyes. The nervousness, the embarrassment, the anger all boiled up in him, and he clearly had baggage; issues he was still working through. Drusilla had really done a number on him, and Buffy had the terrible feeling that she was about to pay for it. She had to rein him in, calm him down and focus him before he did something stupid like run.

Sitting back down, Buffy picked up her bottle of lotion and threw it at him, relying on his instincts to force him to catch it. He looked surprised to find it in his hands, turning to her with wide, frenetic eyes. Lying down flat on her stomach, Buffy reached behind her and untied the strings of her bikini top. She couldn't believe she was doing this. Oh God, she was doing this! She was using her body in an attempt to control a vampire. The thought put a rolling, bubbly feeling in her stomach, and she couldn't decide if it was nausea or butterflies.

"Do my back," she said flatly, her voice steady and halfway between a command and a request. Closing her eyes, she prayed for something she never thought she'd pray for; to feel Spike's hands on her.


	17. Chapter 17

Spike looked down at Buffy with fury grating at his nerves. Who did the bossy little bint think she was? Lying there like she knew just what a hot piece of ass she was and thinking she could manipulate him just by flashing a little skin… He wanted nothing more than to upend the whole bottle of goop in his hands onto her stupid, shampoo-commercial hair and bolt, but he couldn't. Not after what he'd said. She'd think he was running, and he would be. And William the Bloody was many things, but a coward was not one of them.

God, how could he have said that? Soddin' Freud and his slips, muckin' about in a vampire's head! Made a perfectly good ass out of himself hadn't he? So now what? Not like he could make her forget he'd ever opened his mouth. Or could he? Spike looked between the bottle in his hands and the long, slim piece of golden flesh on display at his feet, licking his lips nervously. He couldn't believe he was going to do this. Oh God, he was going to do this!

Kneeling down at her side, he cracked the lid of the bottle and poured a dollop of the tanning lotion into his palm. It had warmed in the sun, bringing the subtle scent of coconut to his nose and, oddly enough, making his mouth water. Reaching out, he clamped his slick palm over the back of Buffy's neck and grinned wickedly when he heard her gasping intake of breath, felt her jerk. Nothing to make you forget a slip of the tongue like a subtle death threat. An acerbic comment about trust and stupidity sat waiting in his mouth, but he bit it back. Better to let his hands do the talking this time. He'd already said too much today.

He started out roughly, working the lotion into her neck and around; harsh, abrupt strokes that left no question about the power he felt having her beneath him. More than once his fingers slipped around to her throat, lingering on the place where her pulse beat frantically, but she displayed an iron control, giving no further reaction than that first, startled gasp. As he moved lower he changed tactics, easing off the pressure and gently working the knots of tension from her shoulders. She didn't seem to notice that the simple task of slopping on some tanning lotion had turned into a full-out massage; even more surprising, she didn't seem to notice when Spike switched positions, allowing him to straddle her thighs as he worked her lower back, putting his weight and the strength of his upper arms into long, smooth strokes, kneading her muscles like putty.

Sliding easily down the length of her body, Spike skipped over her hips and started again at her feet, working his way back up. The Slayer had dissolved into a puddle at that point, sunk into the blanket with eyes closed. It was obvious that he'd well and truly achieved his goal in distracting her, otherwise how was she tolerating this? Still, something kept him at it and he could even reluctantly admit that it wasn't such an unpleasant experience for him either. The sun on his back, a supple body beneath him, the sweet, tropical scent of the tanner that made her flesh slippery under his hands; if she hadn't been his mortal enemy, he might have leaned down and run his tongue up the length of her calf, just to see if she tasted as good as she smelled; sunshine and coconut and sweet, sweet Slayer blood. But that was the rub wasn't it. She was the Slayer. He was the Slayer of Slayers. And this was nonsense.

She had begun to hum contentedly as he kneaded her calves, the muscles like banded steel beneath her skin from all the stupid heels she wore out slaying. Suddenly disgusted with himself and what he was doing, regardless of how well it had worked to distract her from his little gaff, he crawled back up her body and leaned in close to her ear, his nose skimming the soft column of her neck.

"You wanna roll over, I'd be happy to do the other side Slayer."

Buffy jerked her head back violently, no doubt aiming to smash his nose in retaliation for his lewd comment, but Spike had seen it coming and easily dodged her. Rolling onto his back at her side, he reached out and grabbed the bag of corn chips she'd brought out, ripping open the plastic and dropping a handful into his mouth, just for something to do, just in an attempt to sate something. From the corner of his eye, he saw her tie the strings of her bikini with short, tight, angry movements, curling her body upright and glaring at him nastily. He smirked back.

For some time there was silence between them, Spike crunching away at his chips and Buffy stewing in silence, flicking pages of her magazine in between heated glares. Spike couldn't imagine what was going through her mind, didn't even want to try, not after what had just happened. They'd both gotten caught up in this game, carried away beyond the realities of their world.

Buffy let out an abrupt harrumphing sort of sigh, knocking him from his musings. She was looking at him fully now, her lips twisting to the side as she frowned. Rolling his eyes, Spike sat up and faced her.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she replied shortly.

But it was clearly something. And he could wait her out. But whatever he had expected, it wasn't what he got.

"Stay here," she said harshly, rising abruptly to her feet.

As surprised as he was by the words, he anticipated more of them, for her to reiterate the command, to threaten, to ask for his word. He never imagined that she would simply turn and walk away, slipping into the house and closing the door behind her, leaving him alone in the yard and in possession of the ring. Spike pushed swiftly to his feet, his eyes intent on the windows, looking for a flicker that would show him where she was, if she were watching him. This was a test, he knew it in his bones, and he wondered, was it worth it?

He took two slow, hesitating steps backwards, his mind racing, flying through each and every result that could possibly come out of this. His coat was inside… that was a problem. But it wasn't one that couldn't be overcome. Scarper now, he could easily slip back and retrieve it. Course, Slayer'd probably know better, hold the soddin' thing hostage, use it as bait to get a shot in. A low rumble came up out of Spike's chest as he shifted on the balls of his feet, caught between flight and… something else. That duster meant a lot to him, more than most things, but could he choose between it and the Gem? If he didn't, he was going to run out of time.

So. Run now. Think later. Two more slow, stealthy steps backwards and he moved to turn, everything in him ready to bolt.

* * *

Buffy slammed the back door behind her and immediately pressed her back to the wall, her chest heaving as her heart raced in her chest. She felt flushed and hot, her hands shaking slightly. Leaning over, she clutched her knees and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to rein herself in. Was this what a panic attack felt like? Taking one more big gulp of air, she stood back up and ran to the kitchen, pulling orange juice from the refrigerator and swigging straight from the carton. Sugar would help right?

"What the hell just happened?" she asked the empty kitchen. Had she really just let Spike…

It was worse than that. If she'd been tense the whole time, alert, ready, even afraid… well she could've justified it. After all, she had set out to distract him hadn't she? Seemed like it worked. Just… as much on her as it had on him. And speaking of him…

Leaving the juice on the counter, Buffy ran up the stairs to her room, keeping to the side of her window and staring out into the yard. He was on his feet, staring between the ring on his hand and the house, his eyes darting around wildly as he bounced on the balls of his feet. Weird, how she almost knew exactly what he was thinking. She could practically hear his voice in his her head.

"Don't do it Spike," she murmured.

For one sick second, she thought he would. Her stomach dropped and she felt her heartbeat faltered in her chest, a heavy wave of… _something_ breaking over her shoulders. He stepped back, turned to run… and stopped dead in his tracks. Raising and eyebrow, she ducked a little to look around the frame of the window and cracked up laughing. Oh, _she_ was good! Spike might've gotten lucky with a few of her buttons, but she knew how to push lot's of his!

Rooting around a drawer in her vanity, she found what she'd come inside to look for and headed back downstairs.


	18. Chapter 18

Spike would've thought that embarrassment would be one of the things you lost with your humanity. He remembered the feeling from when he was a human - the painfully shy William had had little to be proud of, and he could clearly recall the sensation of blushing; his cheeks flaring red as they flushed with heat. He thanked God he had lost that particular ability, because he was so ashamed of himself that he was sure he'd have burst into flame by now if he could. Worse than his truces with the Slayer, worse than his strange reluctance to just snap her neck and be done with her, now here he was, William the Bloody, helping her mother plant flowers.

Ok, so he wasn't actually handling the little pink things, but he was still kneeling next to her digging holes as she moved them about. He'd been ready to split, to ditch Buffy (who deserved it for leaving him alone in the first place, test or not) and high-tail it, hide the ring and come back at twilight for his duster. He could've done it. Had a place to stash the thing in mind already… would've been easy. He should've done it. But just as he'd turned to run, here came Joyce out around the corner of the house attempting to lug two bags of potting soil under one arm while still hanging on to a bunch of sharp, wooden-handled gardening tools. The nancy boy in him had immediately piped up, demanding he step forward and relieve the damsel of her burden. She had thanked him with a word and a smile, and it had seemed natural in the moment to sink to his knees beside her as she began to poke around in the flower bed and set up her little potting operation. It felt nice to sink his hands into the warm earth, digging out small holes for each plant, the loamy smell filling his nose as the sun beat down on his back. It was easy to do something so normal, to talk to Joyce about her gardening even though it was something he hadn't been able to do in over a hundred years. And then it all wasn't.

The back door of the house slammed, alerting them both to Buffy's return, and the harsh sound jerked Spike back into his head with a nasty jolt. What the hell had he just done? Wasted a perfectly good opportunity, lost a perfectly good chance to get away, and for what? To help out the Slayer's mum? He was a bleedin' Master vampire, not some poncy poofter, yet here he was, and the snarky little smile on Buffy's face as she crossed the yard made him grimace. He'd gotten the sudden, nasty feeling that she'd been watching him with her mom from the house and that she was laughing at him. Did she think he hadn't known she was manipulating him? A low growl rumbled up out of his chest, but abruptly cut off as he looked rapidly between Joyce and her daughter. Oh God, had Buffy… had this… Shit!

He'd been played.

"… And every year I tell her they won't make it, but she insists," Joyce said, continuing the conversation that Spike had thoroughly zoned out of in the horror of his discovery. Swallowing hard, he turned back to her as she packed another flower into the earth and tried to focus, tried not to let on to Buffy that he was anything except fully aware of what was going on. "Orchids are just so hard to grow here," she went on. "Oh, it's warm enough, but the salt coming in off the coast kills them right off. They're just too delicate."

"They don't like salt mom," Buffy declared, suddenly standing at his side, far too close for his liking as she hovered over his bowed form. "That doesn't make them delicate." Bending, she picked up a trowel and twirled it in her hand, staring hard at him. "Spike here doesn't like pointy wooden things, but that doesn't make him delicate either."

Joyce scoffed, and Spike, whose sense of shame was already exacerbated, sneered at her. "Not like I'm afraid of pencils Slayer," he griped. "You'll have to forgive me for being wary of one of the few things that could _kill_ me."

"Really Buffy," Joyce agreed, wiping her hands on her jeans. "The way you shrieked over that millipede in the shower last week, anyone would think _you_ a delicate flower."

"Mother!" Buffy hissed. Tossing the trowel aside, she reached down and grabbed Spike's upper arm, clamping down harder than was necessary and hauling him to his feet.

"Oi! Easy on the goods girl!" he exclaimed.

"Nope!" she fired back. "We are getting away from her before she says another word. Next thing I know she'll be offering to show you baby pictures."

"Hmm, baby Slayer," Spike mused as he followed her back to the blanket spread out on the grass. "Now that might be worth looking into."

"Not a chance," Buffy shot back, her legs folding as she lowered herself down onto the quilt. Looking up at him, she pointed to the spot in front of her. "Sit!" she demanded.

Spike rolled his eyes, but did as he was bidden. He could've laughed at himself then; he and his greatest enemy, his greatest challenge, sitting Indian style only inches apart, staring at each other as though they were fascinated.

"Perhaps we are," he murmured.

"We are what?" Buffy asked, her eyebrows dropping down below the frame of her sunglasses as she frowned

"Eh, nothing," he mumbled. "What you got Slayer?" He nodded at the hand she had clenched in a fist, clutching something since she'd emerged from the house.

Buffy didn't respond, only uncurled her fingers to reveal two bottles of nail polish, one bright red, the other black. Surprised, Spike plucked the darker bottle from her hand and rolled it between his palms before holding it up by the cap and quirking his brow at her in question.

"Halloween," she said by way of explanation.

Shaking her own bottle, she turned the top with a crunch that spoke of long disuse and pulled out the brush. Spike had to wonder why she'd chosen red; it was a color better suited to him than her. Bright, rich, it was the color of blood, heat, anger, of passion and luuuhhhh… Spike shook his head to dispel the strange thoughts. What should he care if she chose red instead of her typical pastels; yellows, purples, ugh - pink. Didn't mean anything. Just because red and black were his colors… Opening the bottle of black, he made quick work of his right hand and then switched to the left.

It was calm if not pleasant, at the very least he could say it was relaxed. The terrible tension that had existed before she'd disappeared inside had dissipated, leaving them both a bit more collected, able to sit next to each other without snarling and snapping. Spike, more sloppy in his workmanship, finished first, and sat with his elbows on his knees, blowing his polish dry as Buffy worked steadily away at her own fingernails, carefully smoothing the red paint to the cuticles. When she was done, she balanced the brush in the bottle but didn't close it, waving her hands around near her head for a minute before picking it up again. Spike watched with growing fascination as she twisted this way and that, trying to get a good angle at her toes around her knees.

"Darn it!" she cried as she smudged red all over her pinkie toe. "Stupid long legs!

Spike laughed, causing her to shoot him a glare. "You've got great legs Slayer," he placated, ready to dodge the bottle should she try to chuck it at him. Seeing her fingers tighten around the brush, he decided to take greater precautions.

"Here," he said, taking it from her roughly. "Gimme your foot."

Buffy hesitated, eyeing him warily before she allowed him to grab her heel, tugging it towards him and balancing it on his knee. He worked quickly, painting the nails with greater finesse than she expected out of him. Pulling her other foot into his lap, he finished up her toes, one hand light on her ankle.

'_Be easy to do_,' he thought, his eyes wandering over the delicate bones under his hand as his thumb brushed gently over her skin. '_A quick twist – snap_! _Wouldn't be able to chase after me_…'

"Spike!"

He jerked when she yelped his name, causing even more of a mess than the one she'd tried to call his attention to. His eyes dropped back to her foot where he had splashed red over the top of her toes in one long swipe; a sticky, scarlet disaster. Suddenly Spike's stomach clenched, rumbling loudly as his tongue flashed out to lick his lips. Buffy's eyes went wide and her foot twitched in his lap, but his hand clamped over her ankle and held on. His stomach rumbled again, and he knew from the way his gaze flicked up to Buffy's neck, from the way his mouth watered, that beer and corn chips weren't going to cut it this time. Looked like his afternoon was going to be cut short.

"Time's up Slayer," he snapped, releasing her ankle like it had unexpectedly turned white hot.

Climbing to his feet, he ignored her questioning look and grabbed his jeans, jerking them up over his swimming trunks and stuffing his feet back into his boots. He was already walking back to the house when he got his t-shirt down over his head. He could hear Buffy following close behind as he ducked into the cool shade of the house, the door closing briefly behind him before it swung open again to admit a huffy swirl of blonde hair.

"What the hell?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

She had managed to pull her jean shorts back on as she chased after him, but had forgotten her top, her posture doing admittedly wonderful things for her figure. Spike's throat tightened. A dozen options blazed through his mind as he swung his duster over his shoulders, the leather cool and heavy on his sun-warmed skin. This was going to be the hardest part, the iffiest part. He'd known that. After one hundred years in the dark, just a few days in the sun had him feeling entitled. He deserved this, even Buffy thought so, so how was he supposed to just give it up, hand it over without a fight?

"Like I said Slayer," he grumbled, "Time's up. I need to eat, and unless you're offering…"

Buffy's hand flashed up, cutting him off. "Don't talk about it Spike. I'm pretending that I'm not spending time with you just to let you go off and…" She trailed away, closing her eyes tightly.

He supposed he didn't blame her. As the Slayer, she felt more responsibility, more empathy for the masses than others did. He could imagine that it would be hard for her to let him go without a battle, knowing that he would just go out and do what he did best. But it was hardly his problem how the Slayer slept at night. As long as he still stalked her nightmares, all was good in the world. Right?

Spike frowned and looked away, unconsciously twisting the ring around his finger. This day had been… ridiculous and messed up and wrong, tense and relaxed and happy and nerve wracking, a twisted disaster that had gone nothing like he'd planned. And somehow, in some strange way, it had been perfect. Because it was them. So what else should he have hoped for? Wrenching the ring off his finger, he tossed it to the girl who stood braced and waiting, her hand flashing free of her crossed arms to catch the gem against her bare stomach, shock and surprise written visibly across her face.

"I'll be back for that," he snarled. Snatching his blanket from the island, he threw it over his head, stalked over to the door, and ran smoking for the sewers.


	19. Chapter 19

It was a week and a half before she saw him again.

College had picked up, and Buffy had decided that she preferred living at home than on campus. In less than two weeks she had already had to deal with a crazy demon roommate, and when she was invited to a party by a charming boy named Parker, only to find him putting the same moves on another girl, she found her zest for the campus environment sufficiently dampened. Besides, living at home meant she was closer to the Hellmouth, and to all the extra assignments given her by her beloved Watcher. Joy of joys! Oh, she still spent time hanging out on the grounds with Willow and Oz, and with Xander when he could be found in between jobs, so all in all she spent very little time at home. In the back of her mind, she supposed she was surprised that it had been so long since she'd seen the vampire, supposed that she had been waiting for him to show up, but when she got back from class early one Wednesday afternoon to find him sitting idly at her dining room table, she was spooked to say the least.

"How did you get in here?" she yelped, coming upon him as she passed through to the kitchen.

He raised his scarred eyebrow sardonically. "Well I got invited in didn't I?" he pointed out.

"That's not what… the door was locked," Buffy pointed out. But she was well aware that such an obstacle was little trouble for him. "Just… don't let the neighbors see you," she finished lamely.

He only shrugged in response, still leaning back casually in his chair. It was strange to see him there at the table where she'd eaten so many meals with her mother, played so many board games with her friends. She might expect him to look out of place, for his harsh black leather, sharp cheek bones, and shock white hair to clash with some many soft, pleasant memories. He didn't. In a strange way that made no sense to her, he fit there, waiting patiently for her to come home. But that was no reason to let him think her complacent.

"What do you want Spike?" she asked flippantly, turning away from him and heading into the kitchen for a snack. She heard him sliding his chair back to follow, his footsteps close behind her.

"All with the obvious questions today aren't we Slayer?" he rumbled, a bit of annoyance in his voice.

Buffy slung her book-bag down onto the island and was surprised when he pitched his own small black duffel up beside it. She cocked an eyebrow, her hand automatically reaching for it, and when he didn't move or speak to stop her, pulled it forward and unzipped the top. Inside she found three neatly folded white t-shirts, packed in beside what appeared to be men's basketball shorts, the shiny black material cushioning a pair of black sunglasses.

"Um, thanks?" she said bewilderedly, looking up at him in confusion.

"Not for you, nosy bint," he said exasperatedly. "Can't wear the stuff over here, not gonna cart it back and forth either, and since you're not so pleasant as to walk a bloke home before shovin' him back out into the sun, figured you could put up with havin' it here."

Buffy must've paled, her eyes going wide, because he jerked the bag away from her and held it to his chest defensively. "Not movin' in Slayer," he snapped, "Not askin' you to clear out a drawer. Can stuff it under the porch steps if it's that much of a bother."

"No you… just surprised me I guess," Buffy said slowly, once again hit by how much she took her own sun-resistance for granted. She could wake up and put on whatever outfit she liked, but she had never thought that perhaps Spike's perpetual boots, jeans, and jacket combo might be more out of practicality than personal preference. "I can put it in the coat closet, or the laundry room or something."

Spike's grip on the bag eased off and she turned away, opening the refrigerator and contemplating just climbing into the thing. This was going so much farther than she had ever thought it might. When she had first proposed this ridiculous truce, she had known there would be plenty of obstacles to navigate, and that technically, she was abandoning her duty as the Slayer and leaving plenty of innocent people open to harm by way of Spike's teeth. But never had she thought that she'd be storing clothes for him. It was something she'd never done before, not with Angel or any other boyfriend. There was something intimate in knowing that she had a man's clothes tucked away somewhere, that a male was courting her so frequently that he would be coming back for them. No! Not courting! Good Lord, what was she thinking…

"Whatcha looking for in there Slayer, the pole?"

Not even the blast of cold air produced by the fridge trying to keep itself cold could calm the heat that flared in Buffy's cheeks. Quickly grabbing a box of leftover pizza from a shelf, she shut the door firmly and crossed to the microwave, sticking a couple of pieces inside and hitting the button. She could hear the fridge running behind her as a result of the door being held open so long, and her hand went to the back of her neck in embarrassment.

"Want some?" she asked without thought, desperate to break the silence that the humming kitchen appliances did little to dampen.

"Some what?" a low, silkily seductive voice rumbled.

She jumped, startled by how he had slipped in close behind her without a sound, his breath hot in her ear where her hand still caressed her neck. Before she could verbalize a scathing reply, or better yet turn and slap him, a pale hand snuck around her waist and grabbed two slices of pizza from the box, retreating before she had time to think. Buffy gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white as she waited for his presence to back away, for him to move a safe distance to other side of the counter. Ready to snap nastily, she was rendered mute by the sight of him folding a slice of pizza in half and stuffing it into his mouth, his expression carefully innocent. She narrowed her eyes at him before extracting her own steaming slices from the microwave and sitting down opposite him at the island.

They munched away quietly for a moment, Buffy pulling pepperoni from their cheesy bed and sucking happily at her saucy fingers. She stopped the behavior abruptly when she noticed that Spike seemed to have an unhealthy infatuation with her habitual pizza-eating style, staring intently at her mouth as her fingers disappeared inside, one two three. Pushing her crusts off into the trashcan, she ran her hands under the sink and grabbed a towel.

"So?" she asked, avoiding his gaze.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Oh, I don't know Slayer," he said sarcastically. "Thought you might fancy a stroll out of doors this fine afternoon."

"I can't," she replied automatically. "I have homework." Spike's eyes narrowed dangerously, his mouth twisting into a frown. "You can't just show up here and expect me to drop everything!" she squeaked defensively. "I know this isn't the best plan; you probably think it sucks… but we're going to have to come up with some kind of system."

"Fine," he snarled, a tiny bit of gold flecking his blue eyes. "But for now what's to say you can't work outside?"

Buffy opened her mouth but nothing came out. He had a point. "Ok," she conceded, "So long as you don't distract me."

Spike snorted, but slipped out of his duster none-the-less, draping it over his stool. Toeing out of his boots, he left them where they lay, grabbing up his duffel. "Bathroom?" he asked. When Buffy only looked at him questioningly, he shrugged. "Here's fine too," he said, reaching for his belt buckle.

Buffy slapped a hand over her eyes and threw the other out, pointing blindly down the hall. "Second on the right!" she cried, waiting until she heard him pad lightly down the hall before daring to peek. She was alone.

Scowling after him, she rounded the island and picked up his boots and coat, carrying them to the entryway where she arranged them neatly on the mat, hanging the leather duster on a hook and smoothing her hand down the sleeve. He wore the thing like armor, proudly, a trustworthy piece of battle-wear. He always had, and she had to wonder if there was more to the story than she knew. She recalled the picture hidden away between the covers of a book upstairs, the one she had unconsciously shoved into her pocket that day Giles had set her about reading as much as she could on William the Bloody. He hadn't always had it. Maybe she'd ask him sometime.

When she heard him bang the bathroom door open, she quickly hurried back out to the kitchen to meet him. She didn't quite know how to react to the sight of him in shorts and a t-shirt; it was an oddly normal look, and at the same time completely out of the ordinary for him, somehow a little obscene, like seeing a nun in a bathing suit. Way too much skin on display. He ignored her appraising stare, only stuck his hand out, palm up, silent.

"I'm going to go change," she said in response, taking a leaf out of his book and ignoring the gesture. "I'll be right back."

She heard him sigh heavily behind her, dropping down noisily onto a stool, but he would survive. Not like she was keeping the thing on her at all times. Come to think of it, she probably should. Buffy closed her bedroom door tightly behind her. He did have an invitation to her house, and if today proved anything, it was that he could show up anytime he wanted. She didn't fancy coming home to find her bedroom ransacked. Changing quickly into a pair of yellow shorts and a white tank top, she retrieved the Gem from where she'd hidden it; inside the tape deck compartment of her stereo. She also grabbed her trusty picnic blanket. Down the stairs and back into the kitchen, she handed the ring over without preamble, a show of confidence on her part that she still didn't quite feel.

"Here," she said, thrusting it into his hand.

While she grabbed her backpack from the island and slung it over her shoulder, she watched him slip it on out of the corner of her eye and flex his hand, staring at it wonderingly, as though it weren't his own, but belonged to someone else. When she moved to the back door he followed automatically, close on her heels in his bare feet, but Buffy was reminded of the last time they'd done this, how hard it had been for him. Reaching out a hand, she touched it lightly to his elbow, sliding it down the inside of his forearm as she drew him smoothly through the doorway. He looked questioningly at her hand on his wrist, but moved outside without the painful pause that had prefaced their last expedition to the backyard.

"Come on," she said lightly, dropping her hand and trying to ignore how soft the skin of his inner forearm had been.

Crossing the lawn, she picked out a level, grassy place that would afford them a bit of privacy, blocking them from the view of anyone walking the street. She wasn't expecting any of her friends to show up, but she wasn't going to risk getting spotted if they did. Fluffing out her blanket, she dropped down onto her butt, pulling a few books from her bag and tossing it to the side. Spike followed suit, folding his legs and sinking down onto the blanket beside her. Looking about him, he grabbed her bag and pulled it closer, balling it up into a serviceable pillow, upon which he promptly lay, his arms folded behind his head as he looked up at the sky. Buffy discounted the way his t-shirt rode up, exposing a thin strip of skin low on his stomach, and instead cracked open one of her books. Hopefully her poetry assignment would keep her occupied.

'_God what is wrong with me_?' she thought with annoyance, her eyes moving over the page without actually registering the words printed there. '_Drooling over Spike_! _What the hell_? _I mean sure,_' she cocked an eye over at her companion, whose eyes were closed as he tipped his face up to the sun, '_He's great to look at_. _No denying_. _But it's Spike_!'

Gah! There it was again. She couldn't even keep her own scoldings in line. Grinding her teeth, Buffy went determinedly back to her book, ready to sacrifice herself to the written word if it was to keep her mind off of the long, cool body at her side. She lasted maybe fifteen minutes. Without warning, Spike rolled upright and pulled his shirt over his head, affording Buffy a lovely view of the smooth muscles in his back and side as they flexed gently with the motion. She shook her head.

"I thought I said no distracting me," she said, her gaze carefully on her book.

"Does my manly physique distract you slayer?" came his reply, his tone light and, if she weren't mistaken, almost playful.

Her eyes snapped up just in time to see him run a hand slowly down over his chest and abdomen, reminding her of that first night she had fought him in the school, when he had teased her in a similar, albeit more deadly, fashion. "I don't blame you," he continued idly, despite, or perhaps because of, her flaring blush. "Can't have gotten an eyeful this good in quite a while can you? Even when you were dating Peaches. Great hulking lump that one, _nothing_ sleek and smooth about _him_. 'Cept maybe the Poofter haircut."

"Shut up Spike," she snapped, though the venom normally produced by Angel-mentioning was absent from her voice. There was something about this that was easy, friendly, innocently mischievous, and it was nice. "The only part of your body that distracts me is your mouth!" Said mouth curled sinfully at that, a pink tongue tucked behind sharp, white teeth, no doubt prepared to make some lewd comment. "So quit talking," she continued, before he could get it out, "And while you're at it, quit rustling around. In fact… play dead!"

Spike chuckled. "Don't have to play luv," he smiled, stretching out long and smooth until he was lying flat on his back once more. "Already am."

Buffy rolled her eyes. Dead things shouldn't be so annoying. Or attractive.

Dammit!

Settling in, he picked up one of the books she'd been assigned and peered at the cover. "Ted Hughes?" he asked, an eyebrow quirked in her direction as he blatantly ignored her request that he leave her alone.

"You know him?" Buffy replied, giving up on that particular entreaty. "He famous or something?"

"Eh," Spike shrugged, "More for being married to Sylvia Plath than his own stuff."

"The one who killed herself?"

"Very good Slayer." He threw her a one-sided smile that had a little flicker of pride heating her insides. Spike opened the book to the middle, turning a few pages before he sighed contentedly and began to read. "Always did like his work myself," he murmured.

Buffy squinted at him, but apparently he was ready to shut up and be still now that he'd completely distracted her. Er… annoyed her. Yeah that was it. Eyes back to her own volume, she flicked through a few pages, tried to puzzle out a few lines that didn't want to puzzle. Three infuriating minutes later, he piped in again.

"What?" he sighed heavily, dropping his book open-faced onto his chest.

"What what?" she asked defensively.

"Can hear you gnashing your sharp little teeth over there Slayer," he replied. "Sound like a rabid porcupine. Not feeling peckish are you?"

Buffy sneered at him. "This stuff is dumb!" she declared. "I told you I don't get poems. They aren't like yours – they don't make sense in my head!"

"Not supposed to," he replied, sitting up and turning to face her. "You're not supposed to _think_ about poems Slayer. You're supposed to feel them."

Buffy looked at him skeptically.

"It's not head stuff," he tried again. "It's heart stuff."

"You don't have a heart," she answered back automatically, almost immediately regretful of her words when he frowned at her.

"Just shut up and listen," he said, picking his book from where it had fallen. "Close your eyes."

"No way!" she yelped. "My mom's not around this time."

Spike sighed exasperatedly, then clamped his hand down over her wrist. "Happy?" he asked.

Buffy didn't answer, but she did close her eyes as he'd asked. His voice began low and smooth, his cockney accent only just discernible as his tone went gentle, caressing the words he read close in her ear.

They plough through the moonstuff,

Just under the surface

Lifting the moon's skin

Like a muscle

But so slowly it seems like a lasting mountain

Breathing so rarely it seems like a volcano

Leaving a hole blasted in the moon's skin

Sometimes they plunge deep

Under the moon's plains

Making their magnetic way

Through the moon's interior metals

Sending the astronaut's instruments scatty

Their music is immense

Each note hundreds of years long

Each complete tune a moon-age

So they sing to each other unending songs

As unmoving they move their immovable masses

Their closed eyes ecstatic.

Buffy opened her eyes slowly to find him looking straight at her, his eyes wide and… perhaps a little hopeful. She still wasn't so sure she understood the thing he'd read, or that it had made any sense to her brain, but she thought maybe she understood what he'd said. His voice rhyming off the words, weaving them around her into a silvery watercolor… she had felt it.

* * *

**The poem Spike reads is called Moon Whales by Ted Hughes, and is a part of his 'Moon Whales and Other Poems' collection. Naturally it belongs to him and him alone, though I highly recommend them to anyone – my favorite is called Moon Marriage, which I would have put in instead, had I fully memorized it.**


	20. Chapter 20

Spike felt something like static electricity trip down his spine. Buffy had turned her hand in his so that they were lightly gripping each other's wrists and he found that his fingers had idly begun to trace the soft skin of her inner forearm as he read. Now she sat just inches away, staring at him with wide hazel eyes, staring at him like maybe she understood…

Spike dropped her hand, practically throwing it back to her and pushing away. Flopping onto his back, he crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, concentrating on the way the sun dripped over his skin and most certainly not on the way he'd been acting all afternoon. God, what were they doing? Flirting with each other like they were friends, teasing because they couldn't fight, couldn't bite… or… wouldn't…

"Thanks."

Spike frowned and opened his eyes to glare at her, but she was looking steadfastly down at the book in her lap, her fingers playing nervously with the edge of the cover, the crests of her cheeks pink.

"You still don't get it," he said, accusation heavy in his tone to hide the disappointment, but then he caught a reluctant smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Not… the understanding part I guess," she admitted. "But… the feeling part, the heart part…" Spike raised an eyebrow, making her blush again and look back down at her lap, shrugging her shoulders. "I got it."

Spike felt surprise wash over him. He… hadn't expected that. He wasn't sure how to respond so he didn't; just settled back again with his arms folded under his head and his ankles crossed, but his mind reeled. Jesus, this was ridiculous. He was hanging out with the Slayer. Again. He'd brought clothes to her house for God's sake! Sure, it made him feel a little better that he'd gone out and stolen them the night before, along with the most expensive pair of Ray-Bans he could pick up in this rinky-dink demon town, but still… clothes at the Slayer's house. It just felt wrong. Like he was her soddin' boyfriend or something…

Spike growled. Not a chance in hell was _that_ ever gonna happen.

Buffy had jumped when Spike began to rumble, her knuckles tight and her eyes wide, but as his growling trailed away to nothing she relaxed and surprisingly, didn't comment. Spike clenched his teeth, biting back a snide comment. He didn't know why he had a sudden hard-on for the Slayer's abuse, why he was upset that she hadn't snarled right back at him or wrenched his arm up between his ears. Probably because that would have felt normal. Right. This? This was…

"So where were you?"

"What?"

Buffy made a sort of humming sound and asked again.

Spike frowned. "What's it to you Slayer?" he asked.

"God, I just wondered," she snapped, shoving out with her feet and pushing away from him. "You don't have to be a jerk about it."

Spike swung upright and pulled his t-shirt roughly down over his head, turning to face her with golden eyes, the tension between them abruptly set alight as his anger and irritation flared. "Told you Slayer," he snarled. "We're not friends. I don't wanna get staked, and trust me, you don't wanna know what I do outside of these little meet 'n greets."

Buffy's eyes narrowed and her jaw stiffened as she pushed angrily to her feet. Spike swiftly followed, his hands fisted at his sides in a mirror image of the furious Slayer before him. She opened her mouth to lash out but he beat her to it, his knuckles cracking into her chin with a vicious snap. Buffy staggered backwards, her hand flashing to her split lower lip. Spike's gaze was immediately caught by the small trickle of ruby red, his tongue flicking out between his teeth to taste the air. She took advantage of his distraction and lunged, catching him around the middle and tackling him to the ground.

Spike curled his body as the fell, ready when he hit the ground. Thrusting up with his feet and throwing Buffy over his head, he jack-knifed and was up again to meet her when she threw a vicious kick into his torso, her small tennis shoe driving all the air out of his chest. Catching her foot as he tried to catch his breath, he threw it up, spinning her out and away from him as he threw another punch, his fist connecting with her chest just beneath her collar bone. The hit spun her around like a top and she used the momentum to throw her own punch, connecting dead square with his nose. He felt the cartilage shatter, felt his blood gush and he laughed.

"Come on Slayer," he taunted, curling his tongue lasciviously as he lapped at the blood pouring from his broken nose. "That the best you got?"

Buffy bared her teeth at him like an animal, her eyes glittering angrily. Mere feet separated them as they began to circle each other slowly; tight, dizzying, concentric circles. Spike bounced on the balls of his feet, leaning forward, barely contained. He was pissed and she could see it, his blood burning with it, his body tensed and ready. He needed this fight, and he thought maybe she did to. It was this truce, this bloody, buggering truce that was turning him into a joke…

The vampire dove forward with a vicious snarl, pouring all of his anger and frustration and confusion into the fight, striking out brutally with fists, feet, knees, and elbows. The battle became an outlet, Buffy a punching bag as he fought down the boiling red emotions that were drowning him. Memories of the last week flashed through his mind; the rampage of blood and theft and petty crime that had sent him into a deliciously maddening tailspin as he tried to forget what he'd done, tried to forget that he was letting this slayer, this _girl_ drag him around by the short hairs like a leashed dog when he could just snap her neck, sink his teeth into her and take what he wanted…

If he'd been paying more attention, he might've noticed sooner that the dance had changed. She wasn't really swinging back anymore, she was mostly just absorbing his hits, blocking his blows with shins and forearms, deflecting every strike but doing nothing to stop them. She was letting him do his thing, letting him work out his anger, letting him take it out on her and it was pissing him off. This was what they were supposed to do, how they were supposed to _be_, and she was refusing to play the game. But Spike knew just how to force her hand.

Feinting left with a vicious hook, he caught her as she spun to his right, pulling her in flush to his chest and crushing his lips to hers, a searing violent kiss. Something flared in his chest, his mouth tingling where it touched hers and he was almost reluctant to break the kiss, to sweep his tongue out over her full lower lip and taste the blood that had trickled down her chin. But he did, and then it was all that mattered; that hot, salty, sweet Slayer blood, burning his tongue, making his mouth hum. Unfortunately for him, that one little taste had its desired effect.

Latching on to his wrist with a punishing grip, Buffy twisted and spun, wrenching his arm and slinging him around, tossing him backwards and right through her back door into the kitchen where he landed hard in a pile of wooden shard, the sharp, deadly remains of the shattered door. The sudden reality check – the sharp edge of a stake hot and painful in his lower back – snapped him back into himself, and he climbed shakily to his feet, using the edge of the island to pull himself upright. Buffy was standing just on the other side of the threshold, the sun glaring down on her golden hair like a halo, an angry, irate angel.

Only… she wasn't blasting him.

He'd tasted her blood, something he was sure would have the stakes flashing, and yet she held back. Oh, her fists were clenched tightly at her sides, her eyes glittering, but she was just standing there, her lip busted, the shadow of a bruise forming on one cheek, glaring. So he glared right back, a low growl rumbling through him as his teeth edged out beneath his curled upper lip. And then suddenly she softened, her whole body relaxing as she cocked out one hip, raising an eyebrow at him sardonically.

"Feel better?" she asked.

And that was his limit. Taking two steps backward into deeper shadow, he wrenched the ring off his finger and threw it at her.

"Bitch!" he snarled.

Spinning away, he marched into the front hall, snagging his jeans and jerking them on as he headed towards the door. The sight of his boots neatly placed on the mat gave him momentary pause which he didn't bother to contemplate, only stuffed his feet inside and pulled his duster from the hook, hiking it up over his head and dashing back out into the sun.


	21. Chapter 21

**This one was actually a lot of fun to write. Based after the episode Fear, Itself, so credit where credit is due - Buffy belongs to Joss and Co, as do all recognizeable quotes, characters, and plotlines. The song 'I'm so Bad' is the Property of Oingo Boingo. Enjoy -**

* * *

"Why does Halloween almost always suck around here?" Buffy asked grumpily, swinging her basket jauntily as she strolled up the sidewalk.

On either side of her, Xander, Willow, and Oz shrugged.

"It'sh a Hellmouth," Xander said around a mouthful of chocolate. "It happens."

"Not tonight!" Buffy whined. "Not. Tonight. It is Halloween, the boogie men are supposed to stay _in_." With each word she stabbed a finger harshly though the air.

It wasn't so much to ask. All she'd wanted was to go to a nice college Halloween party, and given that it was at Oz's fraternity, she'd expected it to be fairly decent and just the tiniest bit acceptable. And she supposed for the first little bit it had been. Until the magic swirlies had sucked them into the house and freaked them all out of their minds, separated them and exposed them to their greatest fears, the ones they didn't admit to out loud.

"Well, to be fair, this boogie man _was_ sorta the embodiment of Halloween," Willow piped up thoughtfully, tilting her head. "I mean, a _fear_ demon? At least he coordinated with the holiday."

"She's got a point," Oz mused quietly.

Buffy chanced a quick look in his direction. He had been terribly subdued after the demon-slay-age, and Buffy thought she might know why. She understood what it was like to be afraid of yourself sometimes. When she'd smooshed the nasty little demon under her shoe earlier that night, it was Oz that she'd thought of when she'd done it. She had no doubt what his fear had been, and when Willow told her about his forced change and his mad dash away into the house, she'd felt an almost overwhelming sense of pity and sorrow for the werewolf.

And so they'd left, Giles and Anya splitting away first, the rest of them sticking around a bit to clean up the mess, double checking to make sure nothing was left behind, that any party goers left behind had found their way out of the nightmare house. Now they made their way to the Watcher's apartment, intent on an evening of sugary over-indulgence, but it wouldn't make up the difference for Buffy.

"N_ot_ the point!" she muttered sullenly, terribly upset, and mostly on the behalf of her friends. Her fear was something that she had to face every day, fighting mostly alone in the dark. The rest… well, Sunnydale was the poster child for living the oblivious life, wasn't it? They were rounding the block now, approaching the gates to the Restview Cemetery, and the black iron fencing pressed in against her side, oppressive and dark on her senses.

"I mean, who did that tiny twerp think he was?" she demanded auddenly. "Breaking the rules like that? Halloween is a sacred, demon-free, off-limits night. They stay under ground; those are the rules! That includes demons, little mini fear dudes, _and_ vamp…"

Suddenly Buffy found herself bouncing off a firm, muscular chest, her senses swamped by a swirl of black leather. Stumbling backwards, she looked up into a pair of shocked blue eyes and froze.

* * *

Spike was having a great night – at least as far as Halloween went. He'd spent the last few hours at Willy's downing shots of bloodied vodka and playing kitten poker with a few other demons, and he'd won himself the pot before calling it a night. Quickly trading out his kitty for cash, he had taken the shortest and quietest way home that he knew. Truth be told, he was feeling just the smallest bit guilty for being out at all – he followed the rules of Halloween and knew that it was probably the only night off that the Slayer got all year.

'_And what the bloody hell did that have to do with anything_?' Spike snarled to himself as he marched along the empty streets. She wasn't any concern of his, least ways not until she was holding a stake to his chest. And it wasn't like he was doing anything he shouldn't be, was it? Just walking home, like a good little vampire. He'd even waited until it was late enough that all the little trick-or-treaters were in for the night, until there wasn't a chance that he might stumble across some little brat and be… tempted. The kiddies were never his thing, to be sure, but one never knew did they?

After all, look at him and the Slayer; spun together into another truce, like moons orbiting some greater star, drawn together when they would much rather spin apart into the darkness. It was damned maddening, it was! Like he couldn't get away from her, even when he tried. Gone all the bloody way to Brazil with his girl, and all he ever heard about was the Slayer they'd left back in soddin' Sunnydale. Covered in her, tasting of ashes, dancing in her sun…

Spike rolled his eyes, rounding the corner and heading along the black iron fencing toward the gates of Restview and his cozy little tomb with a view. The place had fixed up right nice too; a dark, cool, secure little bachelor's pad – if a little dusty. And Sunnydale wasn't so bad really; lots of mischief to get up to, a nice, exploitable demon community, good bars with good alcohol and good cards… almost made up for the blonde, stake-wielding bint that roamed around at night.

So occupied in his thoughts was he, so devoted to the sight of the stars burning coldly above his head, that he didn't even notice the group of teenagers coming towards him up the sidewalk, didn't give heed the tingles creeping up his spine and lifting the hair on the nape of his neck, the warning that burned in his blood. And then a small, blonde figure dressed in a red hooded cloak bounced off his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks and filling his nose with the sweet scent of Slayer.

'_Well hello Little Red_,' he thought. Wasn't this just… neat.

The Slayer stood before him like a statue, stock still, staring at him with those big, hazel eyes, and he could only stare back. Shit, what now?

"Buffy…"

Spike's eyes flicked over her shoulder, adrenaline surging through his muscles as he saw her little group of hangers-on ranged out behind her, waiting for her to attack, shock and fear warring with surprise on each of their faces. Wondering why she wasn't making her move.

"I thought we squashed the fear-demon," the red-head warbled fearfully, backing away.

"Buffy, you realize _Spike _is standing right in front of you?" the floppy-haired whelp warned.

Spike rolled his eyes once more. Thanks for the memo, ya ponce. Attention back on the Slayer, he felt each second ticking by, an unholy waiting game as he tried to signal her with his eyes, to get _something _from the girl as her friends stood on, no doubt puzzling her inaction even as they stood.

'_Come on Slayer_,' he thought desperately. '_Move_!'

Well if she wouldn't, he would.

His fist snapped out, popping her right in the mouth but only at half-strength, just enough to split her lip and send a spray of hot, coppery perfume into the air. Buffy stumbled back, one hand going to her mouth as she looked between her bloody fingers and his face with a look of shocked annoyance. He could almost hear the question – what the hell?! But it got her moving, and then it was all in the fight.

She landed a good, solid punch in his ribs, sending him staggering, and Spike smiled widely, his fangs slipping out in a vicious grin. Girl wasn't playing around. Leaping into the fray, Spike swept out a kick, catching her behind the ankle and sending her down on one knee, only just dodging a fist headed straight for his belt buckle. He snarled. Hadn't thought this Slayer to be one to fight so dirty. Feinting for her friends, she tackled him to the ground just as he'd expected she would, ever the protector of the innocent. Consequently he was ready when he hit the sidewalk, his body curling beneath hers, his feet planted solidly in her stomach as he pitched her up and over his head, into the darkened cemetery.

Jack-knifing to his feet, he leapt after her, vaulting a tombstone as his eyes flashed gold, searching her out in the dark. Her sweet blood swirled around him on the breeze but she'd disappeared, melting into the blackness with a finesse that he admired. Bloody good fun - hide and seek it was then.

He stilled, listening carefully as her three Scoobies charged off into the dark, deep into the graveyard as they called her name frantically. But she was still here, he knew it - close. He could _feel_ her. Stalking forward, a predator on silent feet, he rounded a marble angel and got driven into the ground.

"Dammit Spike!" she hissed in his ear as they scrabbled in the dirt, "I already dealt with a fear-demon tonight; now you? What the hell are you doing out anyway!"

"Cemetery bitch!" he hissed back, throwing an elbow into her gut. "I'm _livin_' here!"

"It's Halloween!" she snarled, slamming her fist into his jaw. "You're supposed… to stay… in!"

Grabbing hold of her cloak at the shoulders, Spike wrenched her to the side, sending them rolling over and over down a row of headstones until they finally came to a stop, the vampire straddling the Slayer's hips.

"I shouldn't have to deal with you!" she snapped, shoving up lightly on his shoulders. The fight seemed to have leached out of them, Buffy slapping at his chest without actually trying to throw him off. "I squished the stupid fear demon; can't this nightmare of a devil's holiday just be over?"

"Aww, what'sa matter Slayer," he purred, his thumbs brushing over the blood-red fabric fisted in his hands. "Is Little Red afraid of the Big Bad?"

"Never Spike," she spat, pushing up on his chest until he climbed off of her.

For a second he almost offered her a hand, but then he thought better of it, stuffing both deep into his duster pockets. Buffy climbed easily to her feet, straightening her gingham dress, tugging the hem of her skirt back down and shaking the leaves from her hood. They looked at each other for a moment, almost shyly, before their head snapped to the side, the commotion of her friends thundering back in their direction drawing close.

Spike scoffed and turned away, ready to melt into the blackness before the Scoobies arrived, but Buffy stopped him.

"Next time Spike," she warned in a cold and deadly tone, "Don't pretend you'll go after my friends. They're not a part of this."

"Next time, pet," he replied, "Don't freeze up on me." Throwing a smirk back over his shoulder, he walked away, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

_Late at night, they're asleep.  
I'm awake, get the urge,  
Hit the street, jump a curb.  
Alleyway, dark and wet.  
Set the trap, I forget,  
Who I am. But I know  
I'll get you… _

_I'm so bad!_


End file.
